


White

by Doitsuki



Series: Shady Ainur [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Aule's into that have you SEEN his leather harnesses, Creation, Creepy Brother Manwe, Education, Evolution, Fights, Fluff, Food Kink, Hand Feeding, High Sexual Content, Implied abuse, Light BDSM, M/M, Mairon takes NO SHIT and Melkor is LOST, Melkor does not intend to hurt Mairon if you've read the tags this far just check it out, Melkor's Unique and Warped Love, Multi, Mutation, Nobody talks to him and he doesn't know how to interact lmao, Obsession, Origin Story, Other, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Seduction, Slavery, Slow Burn, Socially Awkward Melkor, Stalking, Torture, Whump, dont be upsetti have some spaghetti, dubcon, implied BDSM, metaphysical, servitude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6277846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a three-part series that documents Melkor and Mairon's lovely life in Valinor all the way to the blackest depths of the Void. <br/>Melkor wants what Aule has, but is wanted by no-one other than his own two Maiar. Love cannot be forced - but damn, he will try. <br/>Melkor wants to create. But it is not meant to be. So he questions, plunders and cries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Aulë has a Maia, and Melkor wants one. Not just any Maia, but this one, the one with the golden hair and glowing tan skin who calls himself _Mairon_. Melkor spends hours admiring him and barely escapes the wrath of Aulë when he is noticed. Aulë always tries to hit him. Melkor defends himself far better.

“I do not understand.” Melkor admits to his brother Manwë one day in the warm gardens of Valinor. “Why will Aulë not let me see him?” The tree they lean against drops a few yellow leaves.

“Because Mairon belongs to Aulë, and is very busy working.” Manwë runs a hand along the downy feathers at his own neck, a little uncomfortable. “Please do not sneak around to circumvent his wishes.”

“But I want Mairon.” Melkor bites his thin bottom lip. “He’s pretty.”

“Will you be satisfied to gaze upon him?” asks Manwë, gazing at Melkor with his concerned sky-blue eyes. Melkor shakes his head.

“I already do that. I want to hold him, and carry him around. I want him to be _mine_.”

“You can’t…” Manwë sighs. “Melkor, listen to me. Mairon is Aulë’s Maia. You have Tevildo and Kosomot who like to follow you around, and will gladly be carried wherever you wish. It is Father’s will that everyone has their own…” He begins to lecture his brother on what is right, wrong and fated, and Melkor tunes out. The silver bells strung along white fence posts nearby ring in the calm breeze. Then, Melkor has an idea.

“Manwë, shush for a moment.”

Manwë does, and looks mighty offended. “What is it?” he mutters. He does not like that mischievous red glint in Melkor’s eyes at all.

“What if I made him like me?”

“Mairon? I doubt he would be fond of you after what Aulë has told him.”  
Melkor’s face darkens to an ashen grey. “Aulë has spoken ill of me?”

“No, no!” Manwë raises his hands to defend the Vala who he knows little of. “I just assume that if he has chased you away from his home before that he is not fond of you, and has warned Mairon of your presence.”

“I’ll show Mairon how great I am.” Melkor jumps into his brother’s lap and leans to touch foreheads. “Tell me what sort of stuff he likes.”

He searches Manwë’s mind and the lighter Vala lets him, as Melkor needs someone who will not resist his mental probes and pure, innocent Manwë is perfect for that. Manwë however knows little of Mairon and only has suggestions of fine things like shiny objects and illusory matter. Melkor, Lord of Chaos and All Things Unseemly knows about playing tricks. He thinks of what he can craft.

Manwë does not remind Melkor of his inability to do so. He lets his brother entertain all the thoughts he likes, and wraps his arms around Melkor’s waist. They are peaceful together for a time.

~

Melkor has a dark cavern for a home deep beneath the Southern Pelori mountains. Here he bathes in lava and twists natural life into playthings for his bored, naughty Maiar. He only has two at the moment, Tevildo the Prince of Cats and Kosomot the hateful beast. Tevildo loves to toy with the minds of the broken and bodies of the immortal. Kosomot only wishes to grow strong.

Melkor has some ore brought to him by the somewhat intelligent servants he has dominated. Before a pool he sits and heats the boiling water until its chemical structure changes beyond steam to pure energy. The energy vibrates around the ore with such intensity that soon it melts, taking on the colour of pure, fine gold. Melkor concentrates as he pulls out ten strands of his metre-long hair and dips it in the gold, which floats in a globulous ball before him. Tevildo watches carefully, resisting the urge to whack the golden ball out of the air. Melkor then channels his thought into wrapping the gold-coated strands around each other, in an intricate tight braid. He pauses, shaping his hands around what he thinks is the correct thickness of Mairon’s neck. Then he squeezes and wonders what the Maia sounds like gasping for air. The braid jerks around, morphing into something jagged and unwearable. Aghast, Melkor throws it into a nearby lava pit. Mairon has once again doomed his focus. At least he has something to think about tonight.

~

Ten days pass before Melkor, having worked tirelessly to create something conventionally attractive emerges from his cave. His pallid grey face cannot be bothered to fix itself, nor can his posture do anything more than stoop. He must remain bodied in order to hand over his gift. Then, he will observe Mairon’s reaction and tailor his next offering to suit. He will not enter the Maia’s mind. It is impossible to do without noticing, so that approach will come much later. Melkor will try to be _nice_. Just like Manwë, who has hundreds of Maiar vying for his endless love.

Aulë lives in Valinor down the pebbled path away from the main road. Many of his Maiar reside in his huge manor, most of it located underground and with the fanciest architecture in existence. On the surface, there is a forge amongst some houses. Only through the back door of the forge can the stairs to the manor be accessed. Melkor has never gotten past the front. Today though he bodies himself as a cat, a big fat black fuzzy thing with Mairon’s gift around his neck. Aulë is not present above ground but Melkor feels him below, working at something that takes a great deal of focus. Mairon as usual bangs away at the anvil, shaping a silver helmet. Engraving tools and acids lie in organized rows on the workbench to the right. Melkor comes through the open window, landing on the floor with the grace of a squirrel in a tornado. Mairon jumps, missing the anvil and hammering thin air as Melkor scrambles on the ground. Long claws click as Melkor waddles over to Mairon. This is the closest he’s ever been, and his blood-red eyes widen with admiration. Up close, a spattering of light freckles can be seen dusting Mairon’s face. What a fine face it is too, with a lovely little upturned nose and beautiful, chiseled features. Melkor is taken by fierce instinct and rubs his face along Mairon’s exposed ankle, leaning up to feel as much skin as he can. Mairon steps away and tries to sense him. Melkor is familiar, but not an identity Mairon knows. So, the Maia asks.

“Who are you?”

“Myaaaaaa.” says Melkor, fully capable of speech but deciding to play his role to completion. His tail forms a question mark and he shows Mairon the golden necklace twice wrapped around his own neck. A polished ruby in the shape of a vertical eye hangs from it, encased in hair-thin wrappings.

“Ah… what’s that caught on your neck?” Mairon bends down and Melkor’s heart skips several beats, beginning to tremble with excitement. The moment Mairon touches him, Melkor starts purring like an oncoming storm has taken hold of his chest. The low sound doesn’t bother Mairon much, and when he touches Melkor the softness of all that thick fur surprises him. It’s almost comforting to touch, and Mairon pets Melkor as he attempts to remove the necklace. In doing so he feels how _warm_ Melkor is, and plays with his triangular ears.

_‘This is an Ainu…’_ he thinks, absently fondling Melkor’s ears despite having retrieved the necklace. _‘A powerful one, too. What is this… wavering energy I can feel? It is far greater than Master Aulë’s…’_

Melkor hears Mairon’s thoughts and groans in a decidedly un-feline manner at the semblance of appreciation. Mairon pauses then, looking from the necklace to Melkor.

“…Why did you come here?”

“I wanted… to give you… this.” Melkor points with one paw to the necklace. He nuzzles Mairon’s hand with his cheek, licking and offering a glimpse at his long white fangs. “Ooh… do you like it?”

“Did you make this?” Mairon sits on the floor, his breeches riding up to expose a little more of his legs. Melkor jumps into his lap at once, pressing his face against Mairon’s stomach. He has never felt such joy in all his life.

The necklace is a three-stranded plait so thin it looks too fragile to withstand much bending, yet is as flexible as any hand-forged chain. It is volatile, raw energy contained by Melkor’s will, and if Mairon learns to accept it, it will twist into any shape he desires.

Melkor nods, squirming under Mairon’s light brown tunic. “I made it.” His muffled voice sounds a little deeper as he starts sniffing around, licking Mairon’s hot skin. It tickles awfully and Mairon tries to get him out, scratched more than he would like by accidental claws.

“Ach, stop that! You… you are an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Which of the Maiar are you, then? What possessed you to give me this, bodied as such a creature?” Mairon holds Melkor away from himself and wonders how any cat can be so fluffy. It is as if the creature’s soft body is hiding in all that long fur. As if it does not wish to be _seen_. Clothing itself, in a way. Protecting rough skin and unnatural musculature. Maybe that is why it is so large and unshapely, for it does not know what it is. Melkor’s thoughts have begun to seep into Mairon’s mind, and the adept Maia finds them strange.

“You are affecting me somehow… and Master has forbidden outside influence. I must keep my craft pure, fluffy one. You must leave.”

Melkor’s feline face falls into an ugly snarl. “No.”

“You are an intelligent, rational being, are you not? Surely you understand.” Mairon moves to return Melkor’s necklace but Melkor slips away and scampers across the room. He glares at Mairon accusingly, with the most judgemental face a cat has ever worn.

“I love you, Mairon. Please keep it.” He sits on a piece of gold and stares. Mairon perceives a form of malice then, in those frightening red eyes. He has never been afraid of anything before. Aside from…

“Melkor?”

Melkor smiles. “You know me?”

“Get out!!” Mairon grabs a broom and runs towards Melkor, who stays perfectly still. The broom smooshes into Melkor’s face and he disembodies, vanishing into a spirit that fills the room with overwhelming might.

“Why? I come to treat with you, to offer you nice things. You are very beautiful, you know. That necklace suits you.” Melkor only knows the practice of giving gifts from seeing other Ainur do it. He himself has never received a thing from nor been moved to give to others.

“I… I can’t believe you _touched_ me! Eugh!” Mairon scrapes at his stomach and flips his hands about, shuddering openly. “You’re the one who’s been watching through the window! Show your face!”

So Melkor does, hoping Mairon will see his true, best and favoured Fána and know him for who he is. After all, is he not Melkor, Might Arising and All Things Glorious in a neat package? He is amazing, and he hates himself. He takes the body of a tall black-robed Vala, lower half melting into curls of smoke while the top has the face he identifies with the most. Mairon takes one look at him, smells the stench of desperate _want_ and vomits into a nearby bucket of cold water. Melkor draws a hand up to his chest in a half-defense. It does little to shield his emotions.

“Whatever is the matter with you?” he nearly stutters and steps forth to still Mairon’s shaking shoulders, having never seen a Maia retch before. It’s a nasty and unbecoming sight for such a beautiful creature. Melkor wonders what he’s done wrong. The omniscient side of him knows it’s the manifestation of his self. But that’s no problem! He can change into a more pleasing form. He morphs into the closest image of Manwë he can muster, and succeeds only in twisting up his own face. Flesh falls to the ground as Melkor frantically flickers through the pages of memorized appearances he’s stored for quick Fána changes. Mairon _screams_.

When Aulë comes running through the back door Melkor is gone and Mairon is left in a shivering ball on the floor. Aulë decides to purge and understand the most negative emotions he can, and afterwards contacts Manwë.

_“ **Your brother has been at it again. You and I need to talk… face to face.”**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor: Lord of Gifts.

Aulë sits opposite Manwë in a warm forest glade. The scent of healthy trees and sweet flowers wafts about, carried by Manwë’s calm breezes.

“What do you wish to discuss?” asks the Lord of the Skies, running his long fingers through the lush green grass. Filtered sunlight dances in his soft white hair.

“Your brother, and his obsession with my Maia.” Aulë uncrosses his legs and stretches, leaning back to plant his hands on the ground. “Urgh. My poor Mairon was indecently assaulted by him last eve, taking numerous forms with the intent of giving him this.” From Aulë’s pocket the necklace floats, retaining its shape and shine. Manwë plucks it out of the air and inspects it.

“My brother made this?”

“Apparently. His influence is thick upon it, within the very material itself. It is no fine forge-crafted trinket, Manwë. Believe me.”

“I do… Melkor does not know the first thing about forging, not like you. He… has his own ways of shaping matter, I suppose.” The gold slips through Manwë’s fingers and falls into his lap, pooling in the form of a coiled plait where his white robes pull taut around his knees. “Still, it is a curious thing. Uneven and simple, as he is.”

“You flatter him beyond means. He is a crude manifestation of all that could ever go wrong in the world and I want him _away_ from my Mairon. I cannot always be around to protect him, and he is the only one who works better above ground than beneath it. I will not hide him away like some treasured artefact.” Aulë glares at the necklace. The ruby pulses with a certain unlight that even Manwë notices.

Manwë breathes out a cool sigh and encases the necklace in smooth crystal. “Melkor only wishes to befriend Mairon, and he has told me as much. Why not let him run his course of methods until they are exhausted, and Mairon remains faithful to you? Trust in the Fates, Aulë. They will not fail you.”

Aulë nods. It is Eru’s will that Mairon should belong to him, so gifted of hand and mind is he that no Vala could nurture him better. Mairon is happy spending long hours alone working on whatever pleases and challenges him. Aulë does not restrict him at all.

~

Melkor thinks back to Mairon’s behaviour upon seeing the necklace. There is not much else than curiosity, and very little appreciation can be felt for all the effort Melkor has put forth. He thinks bitterly to himself that Aulë has likely destroyed it, because it is _tainted by the Dark One, thus impure and wrong._ Melkor hates that word, _wrong_. It is the one he understands least, in comparison to everyone else’s shimmering, golden _right_. Why when his heart swells with joy is it _wrong_ , an _abomination_ , a gross misdeed, where the laughter and craft of the others is encouraged? Who made it so biased against him? Not Manwë, surely not him. Nobody else has the power to decide the poles of morality, and everyone knows that Eru, their Father, advocates fairness for all.

Melkor does not understand. If this is fairness, it touches naught of his chaotic soul. He is different from the others, unable to create bare matter with the symmetry and wholeness of anything proper. He can twist, corrupt, strip and foul. The further he transforms things to suit his own vision, the greater his confidence grows. It is the closest he can be to happiness, and it is _wrong_.

Melkor throws a massive boulder across the cave and it bursts into a cluster of translucent white rocks. The sparks shower down to burn crackling holes into the ground, from which steam rises in anger.

_‘I cannot do anything right.’_ He growls inside, in private where not even his attentive Maiar can hear him. ‘ _But right is not what I want to be. It is not… me.’_ Scraping his black claws along the ground, Melkor delves grooves that fill with lava-thick blood. He does not know what to do. But if Mairon does not like tangible gifts, maybe he will appreciate the unreachable. The unattainable. The _Flame_.

~

Melkor goes searching in the Void, beyond the edges of the world where he takes no physical form and enters pure space. Time does not exist here, standing still in Aman while Melkor seeks with an open mind. Each venture leads him further than the last. As of late he has been discovering small, gaseous orbs of various colours and patterns, each with individual density and particle effects. Melkor likes to push them around with his thought, combining some for the sheer fun of seeing them explode. In a brilliant white burst of light, one combusts a few considerations away from Melkor. He turns to take notice and there, glowing specks form. Paying attention to the aftermath of the explosion now he sees many specks rushing towards him, enveloping him in a swirling tunnel of sorts. He is taken beyond the realm of his own understanding to a place where the orbs are big and bright, some ringed and others devoured by flame. Majestic these are, but not what Melkor is looking for. Then he spies something in the distance, completely unknown and enough to spark his curiosity. The white specks he draws into a bowl shape before him, transmuting them into dry ice that forms a thick cloud of carbon dioxide gas inside. The edges spill the gases out but Melkor weighs them in with gravity so that he holds what looks like smoke cereal. As he floats towards the distant experience, the orbs come. They surround him, shrinking and becoming nestled in the bowl where they are soon pinned, a cacophony of colours and light. In Melkor’s crafted vessel however they solidify minutely from the weight of his will. His gravity is too strong and some collapse, melting to vivid slush at the bottom of the bowl. To Melkor, it looks like candy. He has another gift for Mairon.

~

Mairon thinks about Melkor. Aulë has told him to accept whatever gifts the Vala offers in hopes that Melkor will soon give up, and Mairon is expected to cold-shoulder him into oblivion. The Maia does not care much for making friends or engaging in mindless banter. He wants to create in his Master’s image and be praised for it, as he deserves. He is Aulë’s best little smith. He is not, however, treated as such.

Mairon humours the thought of Melkor loving him as the word suggests, in gentle caresses and enticing words. The crooked, forceful being that appeared before him nights ago cannot possibly be capable of _that_.

He becomes aware of another presence. Discreetly, Melkor is listening. Out from behind a tree robed as fairly as possible Melkor walks, his face a light peach tone accented by golden specks around his eyes. His long, red garments flow along the grassy ground. It is dark enough for the forgelight to illuminate his approach to the window, where Mairon meets him with a snarl.

“What do you want?” asks Mairon, keeping the window firmly closed.

Melkor grins. “Come out.” He lifts up the bowl just so that the topmost orbs are visible, steaming with gas. “I have a gift for you.”

Mairon has never seen anything like the small, weighted planets before and presses his face to the window before deciding to step outside. The chill night air causes him to shiver and set himself on fire to warm up. He regrets having left the forge already. Melkor is smiling with such satisfaction it appears quite creepy in the dim light.

Melkor presents the bowl, his fingers encased in ice. “For you.”

Hesitantly Mairon peeps into it, standing tiptoed to have a proper look. The orbs glitter at him, some sucking in light and others resembling red-ringed black holes. One even looks like an eye. Mairon picks that one out of the bowl, his hand nearly freezing as the pure carbon dioxide grabs hold of him. It is so dense that he is nearly sucked into the bowl, forced to take a handful of planets instead. Mairon cradles them in both hands, frowning. “What… are these?”

Melkor looks around and tells a white lie. “It’s food.”

“…Food?” Mairon knows they do not need sustenance, and Melkor is just as much of an Ainu as anyone in Valinor can be. “I require nothing of the sort.” He goes to pour the orbs back into the bowl but Melkor steps away, blinking rapidly.

“Aren’t they pretty? I collected these for you in the Void.” Melkor stirs the bowl’s contents with his mind easily displacing a few dripping colours. White and purple sparks flit about, catching Mairon’s eye.

“Why?” Mairon glances at the eye-shaped orb in his left hand and it winks at him. “Why would you give me things without reason?”

“I like you, Mairon, and I wish to offer all that I can so you may return the feeling. That is how these things work.” Melkor is not often this honest but somehow, it feels okay to speak openly with Mairon. He is clothed in a visually appealing form. Mairon will not rebuke him now.

Mairon takes a bite out of the eye and the matter collapses into his mouth, filling him with an ancient, eldritch strength. His eyes widen as something black drips from his lips. “These… things?” Everyone knows Melkor is inexperienced with friendly communication, but of all those able to help him learn, must he choose Mairon? “Melkor, I do not see myself returning any feelings or gifts to you, no matter what you give me. These… balls… I will take. Do not expect anything else!” He tries to yank the bowl out of Melkor’s hands but the dry ice burns him and he drops it, Melkor letting go at once. The resulting explosion from the ground completely annihilates the surrounding area, taking the topmost layer of Aulë’s property into the Void where it is deconstructed into energy, birthing new planets and occurrences. The black hole closes soon enough, leaving the two Ainur speechless for a time. Melkor rubs the back of his head uncertainly.

“Well… did you like it?”

Mairon does not know whether to be impressed or infuriated at the brazen destruction of his Master’s environment. “That forge was my favourite place in all of Creation!” he cries, ripping at his hair in distress. “How could you do this?”

“I… was going to fix the bowl, but you…” Melkor knows better than to place blame upon the one he admires and falls silent. Silence fills the space an apology would fit into. Mairon becomes living flame and rushes beneath the ground, his orbs absorbed into his body. Back to Aulë he crawls, and Melkor spits his teeth out in rage. He takes his own, natural Fána. Valinor is dark this night.


	3. Chapter 3

“He’s very sorry. Aren’t you, Melkor?” Manwë mentally elbows his brother, standing beside him in the throneroom. Here atop Taniquetil it is Manwë’s domain and the air is so clear Melkor can hardly breathe. He coughs out something that vaguely resembles an apology, and it is all Aulë will get.

Aulë, clothed in a loose brown tunic with tight maroon leggings folds his thick arms. “I told you, Manwë, your brother is a _dog_ and must be kept under control.”

“HEY!” Melkor snaps at Aulë, his sharp pointy fangs clicking together. “I am an _intelligent being_ with far greater strength than you.”

“How dare you harness ancient powers and upend the first layer of my house with them?!” Aulë completely dismisses Melkor’s words and throws his hands out by his sides, embers flickering there. “That was the greatest forge I’d ever… well, forged!”

“With the brick walls and stuff? If that’s your greatest work, I find it hard to believe you are the most ‘talented at hand’, as Father once said. Pah!” Melkor tosses his head aside with a flippant smirk and Aulë bristles with insult. Manwë, ever the calm mediator runs a hand along Melkor’s back.

“Do not anger him, brother. His wrath is great and terrible.”

“But what about _mine_?” Melkor whines, squirming away from Manwë’s gentle touch. “I want to beat him into the ground! He won’t let me talk to Mairon!”

“Mairon is **_MINE!”_** Aulë shouts and the pillars holding up the throneroom balcony tremble, a little white marble raining from the tops. Melkor screams right back at him with no true claim, denying everything possible.

“Both of you, stop it! I will not have you fighting in my house.” Manwë puts both hands out and the air grows heavy, cold to the hot-blooded Valar. “Melkor, you must not destroy Aulë’s forges or any of his property, and Aulë, you will release your grip on Mairon as we agreed. My brother could use someone to talk to.”

“But Mairon does not _want_ to have anything to do with this… this _feral creature!_ ” Aulë shakes his fist at Melkor. “He is afraid and upset after last night’s events. As am I-”

“Aha! You’re afraid! FEAR ME!” Melkor begins cackling madly and Manwë regretfully smacks him in the head to keep him quiet.

“Let him finish.”

Aulë snarls. “…As am I, WITHOUT A SPECK OF FEAR FOR THIS MINDLESS BEAST.” He turns away then, glaring at Melkor from the corner of his amber eyes. “My patience grows thinner than a strip of flattened clay with your little games. Gift what you like to my servant, but hurt him in the slightest and I will _destroy you._ ” He disembodies and soon his presence is completely gone. Manwë’s forehead creases with worry.

“I’m sure he did not mean that.” Manwë cuddles Melkor close and whispers to him. “Do try not to cross him again… I will not be able to do much if he grows determined to break you apart.”

“Nothing can break me.” Melkor shoves Manwë in the chest and points at him. “I am Might and Chaos, and no chisel-wielding weakling can lay a finger on me.”

Manwë only stares at him until he leaves. Then, the ceiling collapses.

~

Melkor spends _years_ studying the behaviour of the other Ainur as he always has. They give each other gifts, they laugh and smile. They touch each other in various places depending on their unique relations, things Melkor cannot fathom without plundering their minds. He takes notice of the things commonly exchanged and received well, things soft and fragrant and light. Light is the one thing Melkor cannot control and oh, how he _hates it_. But if it will please Mairon as it does the Maiar he watches today, then it is worth wrangling with care. Varda’s stars are untouchable and collapse whenever Melkor nears them. There is only one other source he knows of. It is staring him right in the face.

Melkor slinks out of the bushes in the form of a spiny black lizard and the Maiar nearby do not notice. He skitters in the shimmering, dew-laden grass to the base of Telperion, where silver leaves sway in the wind. Manwë is calm today. Still, he watches. Melkor cares not and runs up into Telperion, his little red claws sinking into the healthy bark. Once up there with the bell-shaped flowers and thick, lustrous leaves he starts chewing at a branch. The moment he does so, the entire tree shivers and Laurelin bends as if sensing a shared pain. Melkor gnaws halfway through the branch and is about to break it off, ready to make his escape… when something hits him. The Maiar who’d been sitting below the trees are pelting him with olives, knowing at once that any thing that harms Aman’s greatest treasures must be none other than Melkor.

“Get out of there!” cries a female Maia, robed in banana leaves with vines for hair just like Yavanna. “You can’t do that!”

Melkor hisses, dripping sap from his fanged mouth onto the ground where it turns into bright green acid. Already his touch is beginning to corrupt the branch and he must work quickly to preserve its fading light. But he does not know how – his power is in destruction and change, not clinging to the beauty of the past. Snarling in rage he jumps on the break and the branch falls, taking Melkor with it where he takes the form of an enormous wolf. Standing in his own acid with eyes narrowed in displeasure, he grabs the branch between his jaws and bounds towards Valinor. The Maiar do not follow him, finding their time better suited to healing Telperion’s open wound. A few hold each other, tears running down their fair faces. They contact Yavanna at once.

~

“Mairon! Mairon!” Melkor growls as he reaches Aulë’s district. “I got you a thing!” His mouth is beginning to burn a little and he wonders what sort of curse has afflicted him now. Mairon along with some other Maiar are rebuilding the above-ground forge, laying stones in rectangular patterns. Hearing his name, Mairon looks up and disembodies in absolute terror. Melkor is too hurried and pained to make himself look any better, so he drops the withering branch by Mairon’s footprints and grins at everyone. The Maiar see a rabid wolf bleeding from the mouth and with patchy fur corroded by unnatural substances. Chaos ensues.

Aulë’s footsteps shake the ground and Melkor knows Mairon has seen his offering, so he casts his Fána away and leaves. Up in the sky, his anticipation lets him fly buoyant amongst the clouds. Manwë is there supporting him, curious about what’s been going on. When the dead limb of Telperion is recognized however, devoid of light and life, Manwë shoots lightning at his brother in shock. The skies open to heavy rain that pelts the Maiar harder than ice. Mairon bodies himself only to be held and carried underground by Aulë.

~

In bed with thick furry blankets wrapped around his nude form, Mairon contemplates Melkor. Unpredictable and sudden, determined and strong.

 _‘Strong…? Yes, he is quite powerful, I must admit. To cause such damage… and find items from the furthest reaches of the world… it is impressive. But I shan’t let him know that, oh, no!’_ He finds the idea of power attractive, but not so much in others as for himself. He knows his mind will become more open to greater, more majestic visions of grandeur perhaps in line with Aulë’s thought. Style, grace and skill. Mairon will create wonderful things and all will love him for it if he is powerful. With enough mental fortitude, nobody will have a choice.

 _‘I **will** be appreciated. Nobody will undervalue my work if their minds belong to me.’_ He smiles then, and tugs the furs tighter around his body. It’s all so lovely and soft here, the crackling fireplace offering heat where Mairon craves it. Mairon spends his time forging mostly for the heat, standing until he sweats and revels in his own dedication. He wonders if Melkor is dedicated to anything other than being creepy, and remembers his declaration of love.

_‘To love is to share, and to accept each other. Will Melkor give me a part of himself if I accept his other gifts?’_

It is in this moment that Mairon opens himself, and begins steeling defenses against his hair-trigger rejection mechanisms. He has many reasons to protect himself against a being with Melkor’s… temperament. Experimentation is unsafe. But it is exciting, and new, and something other than clinging to the past comforts of the forge Melkor’s generosity annihilated.

_‘Melkor is supposedly the mightiest of all the Ainur. I wonder… What can he make?’_

_~_

“I give him light, he hates it. I give him the planets, he hates me. I give him a necklace, he hates my Fána. What am I supposed to do now?” Melkor drags Tevildo by the scruff of his neck back and forth in the pool of lava where they both relax. Tevildo makes a gargling sound deep in his throat, his fuzzy ears pressed flat against his head.

“Ghghhh… Maaaaster, there’s lava in my eeeeyes.”

“Oh, stop your caterwauling. You’ll be fine.” Melkor does not wish to pain his cat-shaped servant however and pulls Tevildo out of the pool, setting him on his own chest where he licks him clean. Lava is the only fluid Melkor can produce and at present, he and Tevildo are bathing in tears. He has not bled yet in combat, but assumes the same glow that runs through his veins will spill should he allow a blade to touch his flesh. Tevildo meows loudly and squirms until Melkor stops licking him.

“Is that better?” Melkor grunts, releasing the back of Tevildo’s neck. Tevildo nods and nuzzles his Master’s thick pectoral muscles, showing some degree of affection.

“Mmmn. You should stop worrying about that Mairon and focus on more interesting things instead.”

“Mairon is a challenge and you know I back down from nothing.” Melkor turns up his nose, staring at the crystals and stalactites on the ceiling. Most of the protrusions in these caves are forms of volcanic rock, some obsidian streaked with magma and others too crumbly for Melkor to play with. He sends a blast of fire up at the ceiling, causing dark purple bits of rock to splash into the lava pool. Tevildo yelps in surprise and scoots up to sit on Melkor’s head.

“Maaaaasterrrr… How long will you chase the golden-haired one?”

Melkor catches Tevildo’s swishing tail and curls it around one finger. “Perhaps forever. He will be mine, and you will be nice to him when he makes his way down here.”

“If you insisssst…”

“So. Give me some ideas.” Melkor yanks a little hard to encourage his servant. Tevildo spits out, “Help!” and the Vala narrows his eyes.

“What?”

“Help! Ask for help! Get your brother to put some preservation charms on some flowers and give those to Mairrrrron.” Tevildo jumps away and starts licking himself, trying to fix his frazzled tail. “And please do not pull my tail. It hurtsssss…”

“I shall give you mercy since you asked so nicely. That isn’t such a terrible idea, you know. Manwë won’t tell anyone if I explain to him that I don’t want to look like an incapable weakling when asking him for this ‘help’.”

Tevildo says nothing and lets Melkor think.

“…Now what kind of flowers does he like?”

~~~~

Melkor holds a few scrawny Deathbell flowers in his hand, stolen straight off Mandos’s front porch. He waves them around before Vána’s fair face, smirking at her.

“These are super romantic, right? Maiar love these. All deep and glorious and seductive…”

“Melkor, you know nothing about flowers. Those are dead, and grow in the Unseen Realm where spirits go to fade. The Children have not even landed on Arda yet and you have somehow found these remnants of my darkest thoughts. Give them to me.” Vána snatches the flowers from Melkor and he gasps at her audacity. Then again, these are _her_ creations. He snarls at the unoriginality of these new gifts. Flowers. Why not a Maia’s head on a stick? Those make good decorations. Melkor realizes he is musing aloud as Vána begins to shiver.

“Stop thinking those nasty things. Here.” She gives him some multicoloured roses wrapped in bright silver paper. In shades of pink, red and cream they compliment each other like a vanilla-strawberry sundae. “As long as you don’t taint these, they’ll be fine. I’ve enchanted them just in case.” Melkor takes the roses and listens to Vána for as long as he can manage. “Think happy thoughts, and go forth with my blessings.” Vána like many of the Valar cannot comprehend evil, much less the decay caused by Melkor’s unique presence. She knows however that it exists and protects her precious creations against it as best she can. It is the only favour she will do for Manwë at her own expense. The flowers cry to her, asking why she has forsaken them to the Dark One. Vána turns away.

~

Melkor lurks in the shadows, few they may be, in Valinor’s clean streets. He wears his finest Fána with dull white skin and wide blue eyes, robes the colour of the sky. He’s been into Manwë’s wardrobe many times but today he has a serious occasion and this body suits the clothes more than Manwë ever has. Shining like a healthy coral reef with nacreous accents at the sleeves, these layered robes are perfect for floating along the beach on a hot day. The high collar flares open to display Melkor’s slender neck, so much thinner than the usual muscle-bound grey pillar he keeps his favourite head on. He does however feel disconnected as he ambles down the neat stone pathways, rising houses with white-domed roofs shielding him from Laurelin’s bright daylight. His inner music does not sing in harmony with the body he wears. This entire appearance is the result of his research, careful tailoring and iron will. The Maiar do not catch fright when they see him approach. Melkor feels steel bands around his heart, the flames of his spirit trapped inside a tiny glass. His voice is strained in its attempt to sound fair.

“Where might I find Mairon, the most admired of Aulë’s house?”

“You just can’t open your mouth without giving insult, can you?” Aulë appears out of nowhere, bare arms folded over his leather-covered chest. “What have you come to bother my Maia with this time, Melkor?”

The Maiar whisper among themselves. Most did not recognize the Dark One.

Struggling to keep from screaming in abject misery, Melkor inclines his head towards Aulë. “I have a gift for him, and a request.”

“Is that _honesty_ I smell, or the absolute falsity of your words? Get away from my house. We’re still rebuilding, if you haven’t noticed.” Aulë tries to peer around Melkor’s back to see what he’s holding and remembers he can disembody to do that, being an omniescent Vala and all. Melkor however has a glorious blue cloak on that he is hiding his gift beneath and keeps his hands where they are.

“Let me see him.”

Aulë shakes his head and goes to refuse verbally but Mairon walks out on his own, wearing nothing but a few scraps of long, transparent red silk. There is no modesty to his outfit at all and Melkor’s eyes flicker with the colour of dark purple-reddish interest. Then a thought hits him.

_‘Why is Mairon dressed like that?’_

He observes Aulë’s appearance – the Vala is dressed from head to toe in leather, his arms with a few bands on and a mithril chain around his neck. Mairon wears a similar trinket in the form of a chainmaille collar. Mairon snaps his fingers.

“Hello there, Dark One? Is that you in that fancy little Fána?”

Melkor is only a few centimeters taller than Mairon in this body, less of a towering beast than his favoured appearances show. He does feel rather small.

“Mairon. I would speak with you in private.”   
Aulë is still shaking his head when Melkor adds, “…if your Master would permit it.”

The Maiar ooh and ahh. Melkor is finally showing respect!

Melkor throws up in his own mouth and swallows his thick, bilious pride. Aulë looks like a cat with cream of milk all over his smirking face, bathing in victory. Come to think of it, there is an odd shimmer to his skin. Melkor squints to take a closer look.

“Go then, and have your dandy little acquaintanceship. I shall be here with my loyal, skilful workers.”

Melkor does not know what Aulë aims to achieve with such meaningless banter but Mairon hesitates, glancing at his Master. He knows _exactly_ what Aulë implies and starts to step back when Melkor’s will grabs hold of him by the waist. He is dragged half-willingly under a huge willow tree, one of the many natural meeting places Maiar are stereotyped to enjoy. Melkor ensures Aulë is nowhere nearby to creep on their activities and pulls out the bouquet of roses, beaming softly at Mairon. This face does not allow him to grin with early triumph and so far, Mairon seems to accept his expressions. The Maia carefully takes the flowers, the shimmery paper catching his eye.

“Thank you.” he says, breathing in the scent of his gift. “This… is okay.”

“Ah. Mm.” Melkor’s eyes flick around. “I, ah, apologize if my previous offerings were not satisfactory.” His unnatural speech patterns do not go unnoticed and Mairon tilts his head to the side.

“You… think a lot about me, do you not?”

“Yes, yes I do! Aahh…” Melkor sighs heavily and a few hairs fall out of his eyebrows. Keeping himself together is a massive stress. Beneath the outfit, his skin is already taking what liberties it can and turns grey. “I want you by my side, and I want to see what you can do. Please show me something you have made!” Expressing interest as best he can, Melkor bows his head. Mairon laughs at him after a minute of silence and he wants to _die._ But then, something comes out of the Maia’s hand and it is a simple gold ring. There are no impurities _at all_ in the metal, so shiny and equal in all aspects that it symbolizes order as a whole. Melkor has little love for symmetrical objects but sees how Mairon is judging him, carefully. His face displays a mild curiosity and he whispers, “Is it for me?”

Mairon blinks. _‘I spent **weeks** crafting this thing, throwing out hundreds of moulds in the process. This is the only good ring that came out of all that practice. Linked to my own thought, too…! What does he want it for?’_ He opens his mouth and shakes his head. “No, Melkor. I did not make it for you.”

Melkor’s face falls and he looks genuinely disappointed; Mairon thinks it is because of the ring, Melkor believes he is being rejected once again.

“…But you can have it if you want.” Mairon presses the ring into Melkor’s hand and closes it. Melkor’s face suddenly lights up, Mairon’s warm touch tingling around his left hand.

“Yes!” Melkor slips it on his index finger at once and the ring expands to fit. He feels a personal sorcery at work in this and reaches out to give Mairon a hug. Mairon steps back and clutches his roses close. He eyes Melkor, wary.

Ecstatic, Melkor wiggles around with the long tails of his robes sweeping the lime green grass. Midday light glows in his face as does his own joy. “You have… given me something great, Mairon. Would you… honour me with conversation for a while?”

“At this distance, I suppose there is no harm.” Mairon sits down, offering Melkor an accidental peep of his fine genitals. The silk he wears has no purpose other than to feel and look nice. Melkor stares until Mairon clears his throat. “Well?”

“What do you like?” asks Melkor, leaning forwards to admire Mairon’s face. Mairon always wears this Fána, with the curly gold hair falling in rich waves down slim shoulders and a delicate body. He counts Mairon’s freckles as the Maia speaks.

“I quite enjoy the heat of the forge as it is wholesome and all-encompassing. Setting my mind to task is also pleasurable, along with robing myself in the finery my Master provides.”

At the mention of Aulë, Melkor’s thoughts turn sour. “Finery… what you wear is indeed of utmost quality, I will admit.”

Mairon blushes all the way to his little pink toes and curls in on himself, squealing internally. “I… made it myself last month.”

“Oh!” Melkor tastes the delight in the air and notes that Mairon enjoys praise. “It suits your gorgeous Fána very well. Is this perchance your natural raiment?”

“It is.” Mairon dips his head to hide the flush at his cheeks, hair spilling forth over his chest. Melkor observes the sliding locks over sheer silk and pert nipples. “The one you wear is not yours, however…”

“Worry not about that. Today is for you, fair one. I _adore_ you.” Melkor presses a hand to his chest, Mairon’s ring glinting happily. “You must have a wondrous spirit to clothe yourself thus, worthy of all admiration.”

Mairon takes the compliment to heart and is lost in the pool of honeyed words, slipping beneath the surface to feel a comfortable glow in his chest. Melkor likes what he makes and has given him no reason to think otherwise. Mairon tries to think of a question but enjoys Melkor’s praises far too much to bother changing topic. He lies in the grass and runs a hand along his soft stomach and thighs, gazing at Melkor from beneath his long lashes.

“Tell me more.”

Melkor does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pRAIsE KiNK LOL


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lol, plants

After a huge celebration with wine and screaming, Melkor plans his next move. He thinks clearly at the bottom of his lava-tear pool, which is now fifty feet deep and wide enough for him to lay down in. Soothed by the pulsing rhythm of his own heart, Melkor reaches out into space to see where Mairon is. An image of the Maia blushing beautifully comes to mind, and Melkor smiles. Mairon does too. The other Maiar around Mairon do not look so pleased however and it appears that Melkor is looking through the eyes of Aulë.

“Good.” Aulë pets Mairon’s hair. “Your work is of the best quality as usual, Mairon.” As Mairon leans into his touch, he pulls his hand away. Melkor hears Mairon whimper and sees him bite his lip. Aulë has not given him enough, but Mairon must make do. The Maiar disperse. Mairon fades from view.

Melkor knows what he will do next.

~

When Mairon arrives at Manwë’s court, he fears the King has summoned him for some Melkor-related mishaps. It is nothing like that of course, and Manwë smiles kindly as he directs the Maia outside. Warm and breezy, the palace gardens host every kind of bird conceivable. Rainbow parrots and tiny red cardinals meep in the trees, others flying around twittering at each other. Mairon wanders until he sees an enormous tree with nine hundred million purple blossoms on it, a similar amount washing the ground in heady perfume. Mairon recognizes the tree as an aphrodisiac plant of sorts and wonders what Manwë would be doing with something like this. Then again, maybe it is a gift from Yavanna, intended to spice up the royal marriage. Manwë prefers marshmallows and sleeping to spice. Varda… nobody knows. Mairon banishes his errant thoughts to the back of his mind and steps into the flower-ocean. The sweet scents are not yet overpowering but cling to his bare feet, rejuvenating his skin to a soft, yielding texture. Then, the flowers move. Melkor’s head sticks out of a hole made by stirring his hands around, and his hair is absolutely _covered_ in pollen.

“Mairon! So glad you could make it!” He appears a little less fair than last time, his hair black and skin colourless, but there is no malice or distress in his face. Mairon wades through the flowers until he trips over something long and hard. It’s exactly what you think.

“Ah!” Mairon consumes a mouthful of flowers as he faceplants into the blossoms. Melkor helps him up and pats him on the head, the touch lingering until Mairon notices.

“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” Melkor grins. He has heard these flowers be described as _soft_ and _relaxing_. He wants to see Mairon experience that.

“Yes…” Mairon leans back, up to his neck in purple petals. “Why are there so many?”

“Who knows?” It doesn’t bother Melkor at all. “I called you here to make idle conversation. Will you treat me to your precious words this day?”

“I’m already here, so I suppose I might.” Mairon dives under the flowers and discards his clothing, throwing them onto a low-hanging branch. Melkor isn’t wearing anything else and also does not share the common beliefs about nudity the other Ainur do. Mairon however feels free and frolicks in the flowers until he finds a comfortable position resting against the tree trunk. Melkor lays on his side, throwing the flowers in the air.

“So! What do you do in your spare time?”

“We have eternity to do what we wish, yet spare time is something I lack. Always am I at work for my Master, crafting jewelry and the like.”

“What does he need it for?”

“He doesn’t.” Mairon side-eyes Melkor. “I wish to better myself and produce many things that he may judge in all his grand wisdom.”

“But you don’t need to better yourself. You’re already the best at what you do. Aulë can’t make half a ring as good as yours, you know.” Melkor aims a handful of flowers at Mairon, watching them rain down on his head. They form a circle there courtesy of some sneaky wind currents.

“D-don’t say that!” Mairon cuts Melkor in half with his sharp glare but goes cross-eyed at the petals caressing his lower body. “Ah…”

Melkor runs a finger along Mairon’s arm, up and down with his nails filed to clean crescents. “Hmm?”

“What are you doing?” Mairon inches away but cannot deny the curious arousal that rises at Melkor’s touch. It’s all these flowers and their intoxicating perfume, making him feel this way. Melkor is not supposed to lay a hand on him. It is Aulë’s condition of letting Mairon go today… and here they are together, naked in a sea of blossoms.

Mairon disappears just as Melkor goes to rest his head on his shoulder. Soon, the Maia’s presence has fled and Melkor cannot sense his mind.

Manwë pops up amongst the flowers, also nude. “Better luck next time.” he says, smiling sympathetically at his brother. Melkor sets the entire garden on fire in his subsequent rage.

~

Melkor resigns himself to watching before doing in the delicate art of fondling Mairon. In time he will lick at the core of his mind and plunge into his body from behind, but he does not own the Maia yet. Still loyal to Aulë, Mairon has been hiding. But Melkor watches, with his mind’s eye open and fixed on the underground halls. Safe in his caves, Melkor focusses.

Aulë and Mairon are together in the Maia’s room, with nobody else to bother them. Soon, there should be an interruption if all has gone to plan. Melkor watches Aulë caress Mairon’s cheek, then undress him in a few quick movements. Mairon shivers.

“I am… sorry, Master, I did not know he would…”

“Cease your whimpering.” Aulë’s tone is deep and unforgiving and he gropes Mairon’s bare buttocks in his large hands. “I have told you not to let him touch you.” He leans over until Mairon bends with the weight, kneeling on the bed. His lips barely move beside Mairon’s pointed ear. “You are mine, Mairon, and we are playing that bastard’s _game_. You will lead him until he loses hope, and we will once again have peace. Melkor is trouble, do you hear me?”

“Y-yes…” Mairon breathes shakily into the sheets. He hopes Aulë will not hurt him tonight, and Melkor tastes the fear through his perverse looking-glass. Then the door opens perfectly timed and a Maia with a scroll in hand bursts through. It bears a wax seal imbued with Melkor’s will, and anyone who touches the scroll will know that it is for Mairon. Curumo the intruder stiffens at the sight of Aulë hovering so menacingly over Mairon.

“A-aah, delivery, for Mairon…” he stutters, and throws the scroll onto the table. Aulë reaches back to take it but Mairon holds him by the jaw and begs him to finish what he started. Aulë is only too happy to comply. Melkor denies the voyeuristic pleasure in his loins in favour of the rage in his heart, and despises Aulë for being able to please Mairon so well.

_‘I should be the one touching him like that. I should be the one he calls **Master**.’_

Later, Mairon opens the scroll when he has a moment to himself. It reads:

**_We did not get to spend much time together at our last meeting. I regret if I have made you uncomfortable. Please do not run away next time. Let me love you. I am learning.  
P.S. If Aulë is reading this, can you set him on fire? I think it would be funny. _ **

Below there is a stick figure of Aulë on fire next to a hyperrealistic bust of Mairon with glowing eyes. Melkors handwriting is nearly illegible but there is a guided roundness to the jagged scrawls that suggest another hand's touch. Melkor has written with the assistance of his brother, and Mairon senses a little of Manwe's sensibility in the text. He smiles.

_‘Does he… admit a mistake? There is no outright apology, but he says that he is learning… Hm, these are grounds for forgiveness but I must not betray my Master. Nay, Melkor shan’t touch me with anything other than words. I will play the game.’_

~

Melkor tries to take things slowly, he really does, but when Mairon only agrees to meet with him once a month and the other Maiar won’t go near him, he finds himself becoming acquainted with frustration. Kosomot and Tevildo are there for him they say, but neither are what Melkor wants at the moment and he tells them as much. Every night he watches Aulë and Mairon interact, using the waves of energy in the air to project his consciousness into their space. He does not interact and remains passive to avoid detection. Only when his emotions rise to unmanageable heights does he leave and weep into the lava pits.

He asks Manwë for advice on a cold, dull day – or at least it seems that way to him, as rainclouds hover above his head and snowflakes form in the air. He slinks into his brother’s palace to find Manwë drinking tea by the window, looking unusually pensive. Upon Melkor’s arrival, Manwë gives him a solemn glance.

“Brother. What do you come for today?”

“Must I come for something? Can I not just sit and quarrel with you over nonsense?” Imitating the way Manwë speaks has long since been Melkor’s favourite way to piss him off but today, the Lord of Aman has no intention of getting upset. He gestures to the armchair opposite his own.

“Sit.”

Melkor shakes his head and climbs into Manwë’s lap, giving him a few seconds to put his tea aside. Manwë sighs, running his fingers through Melkor’s long black hair.

“Trouble with Mairon again?”

“Somewhat.” Melkor grunts. He does not know how to explain what he feels but he is tense, his body aching for reasons unknown and head with a terrible pressure inside. “I feel shit.”

“Not a nice thing to feel, hm? Shall I make you better?” Manwë smiles just a little but Melkor can see his mind is far, body not entirely in the present. His hands drift like feathers falling from an old nest.

“…What’s the matter with you?”

Manwë blinks, paying more attention to his brother’s irritated face. “Nothing, nothing at all. Calm yourself…” He begins to massage Melkor’s scalp, humming his own soft music that resounds with a pleasant neutrality. Manwë knows how to sing to Melkor, and Melkor appreciates it quietly. The feel of those gentle fingers in his hair relaxes Melkor to the point where his body melts into Manwë’s. Now and then, Manwë sips his tea with an extra hand formed out of the air. His breathing synchronizes with his brother’s, and in time Melkor falls asleep.

Manwë pets him as one would a snoozing cat. He cannot stand, nor does he need to. He thinks about Mairon, and just what Melkor sees in him. What does Mairon have that he doesn’t?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> manwe u fukken creeper pls stop


	5. Chapter 5

In the years that follow, the Valar begin shaping Arda. Lakes fill the dips in grassy fields and countless trees populate the ground. Flowers of all types are selected for each region, all bright and beautiful. When Melkor arrives, some of the land turns to desert, ice and blackened wastelands. He pours out his infinite ideas for what the world should be, righting what Eru’s designs made wrong in the Great Themes. While Yavanna and Nessa are singing their songs, Melkor is screaming as he thunders across the plains. Maiar leap out of his path, Ulmo nearly dies under a massive iceberg and Manwë shakes his head, displeased.

“Brother, what are you doing?” His voice booms from up in the clouds and Melkor does a crazy dance waving his arms around in all directions. Mountains rise around him, jagged peaks and sheer cliffs spiking up through the clouds. Manwë feels it like the stab of a knife and winces. “Stop it!”

“NO!” Melkor howls, running to the North and cackling. “I’m going to make things and YOU CAN’T STOP ME!”

Aulë, busy collecting the thinly veiled mist-light on the ground hears Melkor and rolls his eyes. This is not going to end well for _anyone_.

Up in the North, Melkor dives into the ground and begins tunneling many chambers like a maddened worm.

_‘I’m going to make the most awesome house EVER and nobody will be able to get in.’_ He envisions dungeons and courtyards and his own Dark Palace, and as he thinks it comes to life. Here in the North it is ridiculously cold and it’s entirely Melkor’s fault, his black and white thinking forcing the temperatures to extremes. He brings Kosomot and Tevildo to help, and they work their minimal architectural skills into giving the place a bit of structure. The place ends up looking an absolute mess with unnatural geometry and stairs that defy physics. There are huge, floating stones in rough diamond shapes that glow with veins of  magma and light up the enormous caverns. Melkor does not dare build above ground where the others can see; that will take a risky and long amount of time. He refines over many years the burning depths of Utumno – Hell, in all its hidden splendour.

One day he comes out of the ground to see in the distance a bright light that nearly burns his eyes out.

“Gah!” He shrieks, startling his sleeping Maiar. “What _is_ that?”

Aulë has concentrated all the light in Arda to two points, holding them in the lamps of Illuin and Ormal in the North and South. Since Melkor is in the furthest North he cringes at the light and begins to raise great mountains strong and iron-grey. Soon the light does not touch where Melkor plans to build his kingdom and he is happy, undisturbed. The Valar rest after having populated Arda with all their beautiful creations. Melkor continues to work.

In time, Melkor comes across animals and insects. With the sheer power of his mind he draws them North and while many die, others grow into twisted, grotesque mockeries of their own biology to cope with the harsh conditions of Utumno. Fell beasts with horrifying poisons in their fangs and scales that burn to touch crawl about on hooked wingtips. Spiders skitter about eager to suck the blood of any intruders and corrupt them to Melkor’s cause. Lizards become aggressive, savage monsters and bats take human shape just like Melkor’s favourite Maia. Melkor however is not too skilled at making beautiful bodies and thus a race of dreadful succubi are created from his lust-driven attempts at replicating Mairon, in his own glorified image. Then there are the wolves, and they stand taller than some trees but never over Melkor himself. Kosomot starts to model himself out of the residual might Melkor leaves wavering in the air and lords over the beasts as a Valarauco, a literal _power monster_ with shadow and flame for a body. Then the Necromancy begins.

Melkor’s domination over the living creatures in his realm imbues them with his will, and the more power he gives them, the more intelligent they become. They listen to him and venture out to drag other beings in, including corpses which Melkor makes into spirits, phantoms, wraiths and demons. Soon the Northern Forests become haunted and Melkor claims them for himself, but Yavanna senses evil afoot and goes to have a look. What she sees she brings to Manwë’s attention, sobbing and begging for him to set Melkor straight.

“Take pity on he who cannot create.” says Manwë, resting a gentle hand on Yavanna’s leaf-covered shoulder. “All he can do is change.”

“He is destroying every life form I make!” Yavanna wails and shows a sketch of a humongous beast unlike anything the Ainur have thought of before, comparing it to a baby gecko in her other hand.

Manwë shrugs and turns away. “Make more.”

It is believed that Melkor’s might is constrained to the North, and for a time the weary Valar let him do what he will in his terrible kingdom. The pits of Utumno become renowned for their ability to spawn worse life forms than the ones thrown in, and Melkor evolves his very own horrors great and small. From the boiling pits the flame-resistant ones come. Out of icy caves that reach into the Iron Mountains, the dead ones rise. Utumno is a senseless stridency of lava and frost, neither bothering the other and holding its own ground close enough to melt. It is Melkor’s elemental wonderland and he laughs to the swirling black sky. His brother has given him leniency in this part of the world, and for that he is grateful.

_‘I deserve this.’_

In time however he grows curious about what the others have made and with some sunglasses on to protect him from the Lamps, he flies South. There, the Valinorian vision of beauty sickens him so much that he roars all the trees down and sends fire across the hills. The other Ainur scream, “MELKOR NO!!!” but he does not listen and destroys absolutely _everything_ they’ve made over the centuries, stealing some of the Southern creatures for his own lands too. He freezes Ulmo’s waters and thickens the air with ash, cackling all the while.

“This is how it should be!” he cries, throwing his hands up and creating a vortex of matter. “None of you know anything about how the world should look! I proclaim Arda as MINE and will shape it the _right_ way!”

“I don’t think so!” Tulkas rears his head from his place crouching in a crater and shakes his fist at Melkor. “We have taken Manwë as our Lord here as back home and will never bow to you! Arda belongs to none of us – we are here to make it in our Father’s image. Piss off before I smash your face in.”

“Excuse you!” Melkor aims a torrent of lava into Tulkas’s eyes and enjoys the resulting screams, but not so much the determined smack to his mind. Tulkas mentally and physically restrains him, turning his best Fána to pulp while the grieving others look on. Melkor retreats North to rebuild himself after, filled with bitter hatred. He knows they will never accept him, and wonders if Mairon would like Utumno as it is now.

He removes his sunglasses. Those lamps are still there and they are Aulë’s, bright and symmetrical. With raw anger coursing through his freshly made body Melkor casts the lamps down with the help of his host, the strong Fell Beasts uprooting the towers from the ground. Some of the warped lizards can fly, and they belch smoke everywhere to disguise Melkor’s mischief. All of Arda is scorched to nothingness save Melkor’s mountain-protected stronghold of Utumno. The Valar in their panic try desperately to contain the catastrophe but it is no use, and the light spills everywhere, ruining the earth until it dies. The Valar are occupied with rebuilding a darkened Arda for millenia. It is during this time that Melkor sets guards in Utumno and goes to see Mairon.

He finds Mairon lazing about in a young forest, eating some berries from a bush.

“What are you doing?” he asks, forgetting that he is a five hundred foot tall warlord without a shred of clothes on. Mairon’s heart stops and he has to heal his Fána before he can speak.

“None of your BUSINESS ai Melkor what are _you_ doing here? Why do you look like that? I don’t remember you being this ugly!!”

Melkor pauses in his step towards growing small enough to talk face to face with the Maia. His eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“That nasty, gnarled face of yours! And what’s that between your legs? Eugh, put a proper body on or leave me be! My Master would be here to protect my eyes against this but…”

“No, do not call him, I will change.” Melkor stuffs his mighty body into the corset of a skinny white Fána, just a little taller than Mairon. “Hrrgh. Ahem.”

“What do you have to say for yourself after all that damage you caused?” Mairon points an accusing finger at Melkor, his nails painted bright red. “Everyone hates you.”

“Do you?” Melkor crouches to sit in the bush, turning it into a prickly dead mass of thorns. It’s comfortable for his firm ass but not so for Mairon, who sneers.

“Of course I do. You ruined my Master’s best work on Arda and have been perverting natural life up in your forsaken North-hell.”

“It’s just Utumno. Not… whatever you just named it.” Melkor’s mind skips over the implications of Mairon hating him and he grabs the Maia by the arm. “Come see. It’s great!”

“NO!” Mairon twists and turns, throwing his body to the wind. His spirit flees but Melkor is faster and churns the fabric of space and time to reach him, binding him in lustful wrappings.

“I want you to see, Mairon. You will come with me.”

“I said NO!!!” Mairon shrieks inside Melkor’s head, the air around them quivering with heat. “Let me go! I don’t want you to hurt me like you did with all those poor creatures!”

“I will not hurt you.” Melkor says, and teleports bodiless to Utumno’s mountainous gates. “Trust me.”

“Over my unmade body--” Mairon’s aghast yowling cuts off to a choked gasp. The very air here is thick with malice and decay, pure evil seeping into his soul the longer he stays in Melkor’s grip. Melkor peels his resistance away, being inside his mind and enclosing his escape routes at once. Trapped, Mairon writhes for a second and opens his mind. There is power here. _Lots_.

“I want to make a fortress above ground, and have passageways leading to these tunnels and pits. Can you help me?” Melkor gazes into Mairon’s heart to plead with him, and slowly the Maia forms a body with the ability to fly. Kept on a mental chain close to Melkor, Mairon asks to look underground. What he sees is the worst architecture imaginable and it hurts his head just to look at it.

“You need the touch of a Maia of Aulë.” says Mairon, and turns to Melkor. “Otherwise, your fortress will collapse before you can even start building.”

“That makes little sense, but okay.” Melkor nods. “Do your thing.”

“Lend me your strength and I will.” Mairon has been absorbing the floating wisps of raw evil around the place and now, he asks for a direct transmission. Melkor at once pours enormous strength into him, running his hands along Mairon’s fiery body.

“Take it… all of it…” Melkor murmurs, swimming in the coagulated power that nearly roasts Mairon alive. “Take it and help me, and bestow your gifted handwork upon my fortress.”

Mairon feels the usual pleasure he does of praise combined with the immense surge of might in his Fëa and registers nothing of his own corruption. The strength is so glorious and literally orgasmic for him to wield, everything he’s ever dreamt of and even beyond his comprehension. This is what it feels like to offer Melkor his assistance, and it is _damn good_. He raises a symmetrical foundation in the ground and begins to concentrate on hallways, rooms, furniture and all else Aulë has taught him to create. Caught up in the moment, he spends _years_ with Melkor watching him, influencing his craft.

He crawls back to Aulë when Melkor’s loaned strength is depleted but promises he will return to collect it from the very stones of Utumno. Melkor’s might is seemingly unending and the world is not yet populated with his creatures in every corner. In Utumno, Melkor leaves his Maiar to breed horrors and makes his way to Valinor. That is where Mairon is, after all. His seduction is not yet complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this bit isn't rly in line with canon but hEY i'm shaping Arda leave me timeline screwing alone xD


	6. Chapter 6

Mairon thinks he has made a mistake. As Aulë lectures him on interacting with Melkor, all he can think of is the error in using ancient power to build a fortress when he could’ve stored it and ran.

 _‘Where do these dishonest thoughts come from?’_ he wonders, residual might having deepened the tone of his inner voice. It is still suave and seductive but he rolls his r’s and growls when upset. Aulë has noticed and fears the worst.  
“Can’t you see he’s corrupted you?!” Aulë shakes Mairon by the shoulders. “Where has my sweet, talented little Maia gone?”

Mairon shrugs Aulë away a little roughly. “Don’t do that.” His narrow, black-outlined eyes glare up at the Vala. Aulë bristles with anger.

“You dare command your Master!” He raises his hand to hit Mairon and the little Maia cringes, putting up fists to shield his head. Usually he would have his hands flat out, begging for mercy. Now he looks ready for a fight.

“You must be purged.” Aulë grabs Mairon by the hair and shoves him to the ground, stripping off his own breeches. “I will take that forsaken influence out of you if I have to milk it from your blood.”

When Mairon cries, his tears are black. It is not just the eyeliner at fault.

~

Mairon goes looking for Melkor and finds him easily with a call from the mind.

“It’s me!” Melkor beams at Mairon, sitting cross-legged atop a flat rock. “Right here. Come to me, my love~”

“Hold a moment. I do not love you, Melkor. Let us establish that now.”

Melkor’s face flashes with a moment of heartbreak before he schools it into proper stoicism. “Right. Yes. Then, what do you need? I know you want me. For what is yet to be seen.”

“This was a mistake.” Mairon walks up to Melkor and jumps on him, standing on the Vala’s thigh. “We weren’t supposed to be acquainted for this long, nor were you meant to… change me with this power.”

“You’re changed?!” Melkor pulls Mairon into a crushing hug and hell, the Maia almost _likes_ it. “Ai, I’m so happy!”

“G-get away from me!” Mairon claws at Melkor and scratches him across the face. Black blood seeps out.

“Ow…” Wincing, Melkor peers balefully with huge red eyes at Mairon. His black scleras appear quite frightening to the somewhat corrupt Maia. “That hurt.”

“It was supposed to, you fool! Do not just grab me as if I am a toy! You are not to touch me. Understand?”

“Yet you can stand upon my leg and scratch me in the face? Hmhm. Fair.”

“You’re an _ass_.” Mairon leaps away from Melkor once released. “Master was right. You’re a worthless being without talent, only strength to your name.”

“Hey.” Melkor suddenly grows serious and his sharp teeth poke out from beneath his thin upper lip, a snarl coming on. “Don’t say that.”

“The truth aches does it not?” Mairon snickers with such a nasty edge that Melkor remembers it to be the first sign of his change. “You have chased me for too long, Dark One. Know that I will never love you no matter how many fortresses I build to rectify your awful creation-mockery.”

_Creation-mockery._

The words circle Melkor’s head until they lose their meaning and he is flailing to grasp at what they suggest. He knows fully well that he cannot create… but if the vast halls of crystal and twisting passages and warp-stairs to above ground prisons do not constitute as his own making, then what have his achievements wrought? Has he achieved anything at all? Or has he been making a fool, a _mockery_ of himself this whole time? For his entire life? He wonders what he exists for then, and his eyes turn glassy.

Mairon watches him think. Melkor pulls his hands into his own lap and they fumble for something to hold, clenching and unclenching around ragged black robes. A low, pained groan comes from deep within Melkor’s chest. He puts his head down and begins to sob.

Mairon does not know what he is seeing and the little Maia who wants to laugh at the pathetic Vala is silenced by something aged and mature. He blinks, then turns away. The decision does not feel like his own.

~

Melkor reaches to Manwë in his time of need and the light-haired Vala floats down on white, powdery wings.

“My dearest brother… who has hurt you so?” Manwë’s fair voice carries a thinly veiled threat to the obvious perpetrator whose presence can be felt lingering in the grass.

“Mairon…” Melkor wails, “Mairon hates me. I can’t make things. He’ll never love me, will he? Why do I even try?”

“Because you want him, Melkor, and he is blind.” Manwë strokes Melkor’s white knuckles until the fabric caught in those tight fists are released. “There, there… in time, we shall help him see.”

“See what? There’s… there’s nothing to see, I’m _nothing,_ Manwë, he said so himself…” Melkor’s weeping increases tenfold and the skies open up to blast the ground with freezing rain. Manwë weaves a cloudy shawl around himself, drying his soaked robes along with Melkor’s. He both sees and feels innately how upset his brother is and cannot help the slight resentment that breaks through his good heart. Mairon is not worth this agony that Melkor feels, this Fëa-splitting corrosion of confidence. He wraps Melkor in a tight hug, nuzzling into his brother’s neck. There, he kisses him and warms Melkor’s deathly cold body.

“Come home with me, brother. Before anyone sees.”

Melkor fears more than anything else being left alone and having his weaknesses discovered, few though they are. He stands at once with Manwë’s assistance, muscular legs quivering like reeds in a hurricane.

“Nh…” he rubs his nose against Manwë’s shoulder, sniffling. _“Promise you’ll protect me.”_ His mind says what his voice cannot.

“ _Always.”_ Manwë replies, and whisks Melkor away to the Master Bedroom atop Taniquetil, in the glorious white palace. Varda does not sleep with Manwë, so there is plenty of room for Melkor to get nice and warm as he settles in for a long night of reassurance. Manwë’s validation is all he has now. He calms.

~

Melkor sits in Utumno, in the middle of what he calls the Great Hall. It’s a massive circle with the tiles cracked so precisely they all point to the center where he rests. Gazing at the ring on his index finger, he wonders if Mairon will ever do anything for him ever again. He has given the Maia power and opportunities, had an amazing fortress built, and at once lost Mairon’s respect forever. He does not understand what he has done, if he’s done anything at all.

All he knows is that he wants the Maia and will not give up, despite his spirit being near crushed. He will fight for Mairon, and slay all those who dare stand in his way. First on the list: Aulë.

Aulë has plenty of Maiar to love and adore him, to work at his numerous inane tasks. Melkor’s two prefer sleeping, fighting and attempting to reproduce before being useful in any way. They offer comfort to him sometimes but Melkor cannot discuss anything much with either of them, not after realizing what his influence does. Tevildo and Kosomot are not the most intelligent Maiar, skilled more at corrupting others than negotiating with them. For most purposes this is fine, but Melkor cannot connect to them – he cannot connect with _anyone_ , not even his own brother. Mairon however is a clever, strong being that can take in Melkor’s power to absorb it into himself. It will not push out his natural self, nor will it take over him if Melkor is careful enough. Beautiful, talented Mairon is the one Melkor wants as a lover, lieutenant and friend.

_‘But he does not want me.’_


	7. Chapter 7

Melkor’s thoughts circle in his head until he begins to see repeated images of Mairon bent before him in the Great Hall. His pulse quickens and his pupils dilate. With speed he decides to fly to Valinor and confront Aulë in a contest unlike any other. When he reaches the beautiful city however he notices the Vala wandering about with Mairon by his side too, as if to taunt Melkor’s attack! Hiding in some bushes (and killing them in the process), Melkor watches as Aulë shamelessly fondles Mairon’s backside through open gossamer robes. Mairon is blushing but looks distracted, his head down and eyes flicking about. Melkor senses a form of paranoia, as if Mairon hears the voices that he does.

It is the Change.

Melkor whispers to give Mairon something to listen to. The Maia’s head raises and his eyes scan rapidly for any sign of darkness. His mind is closed. He protects himself.

Aulë’s hand is large, warm and stiff as it kneads the pale dough of Mairon’s buttocks. He does not hear the words, but Mairon does, and stops walking. Aulë’s hand passes through him.

Mairon does not exist.

 

Beneath the ground, the Maia dissolves his projection. Mere shadow-forms cannot withstand Melkor’s influence, so dissonant to the Music of the Ainur. But Melkor is of the Ainur, and he screams amongst the harmonies of the others.

Mairon hears him screaming. It is quiet, as a whisper at the back of his mind.

_‘Come.’_

 

Aulë does not know Mairon’s projection is what it is as he sees his own beloved Maia vanish into thin air, his presence nowhere near. He has been tricked, and hears Melkor’s shrieking laughter from the bushes. The Dark One erupts in a huge black cloud and heads for an open field, drawing all who will heed his call to his position. Here he will make his claim.

Aulë follows. Mairon does, too.

~

After enough time has passed, many Ainur are gathered amongst some half-built pillars in a grassy field. Manwë is here too, sitting on a cloud just meters above the ground. He senses his brother’s emotional tumult and knows this will not end well.

“Fight me.” Melkor points at Aulë, bodied as a great and powerful Lord. “To the DEATH.”

Aulë laughs as do the spectating Ainur. “Whatever for? We’re immortal, or have you forgotten?”

“I will unmake you and Mairon _will_ be mine.”

Mairon raises an eyebrow as Aulë inquires “How do you know that?”

“I know _everything!_ It is my power to have knowledge greater than all of you-”

“Where’s the Eternal Flame, then?” Tulkas butts in, flexing his muscles menacingly. “Your most coveted prize?”

“I… I have it RIGHT HERE!” Melkor bristles with anger and unleashes a torrent of fire straight into Tulkas’s smirking face, singing his golden beard off. It is a grand spectacle for sure but it is no Eternal Flame and the others know it, mocking Melkor with their snickering. His eyes sink with black hatred and he focusses on Aulë. “Come.”

So Aulë does, and humours Melkor with a feint forwards. At once Melkor slams an entire wall of defensive force against him and Aulë staggers back, not a single hand yet laid upon him. The other Valar stop laughing and Melkor can no longer feel the efforts of their condescension. It is a battle of fists before wits for Melkor and he lunges at Aulë, landing on the floor as the stunned Vala jumps out of the way. Aulë tries pinning Melkor to the ground but unaware of the rabid hatred towards him gets a face full of spit. Melkor rises in the moment he has and rips out the throbbing veins at Aulë’s neck, spraying blood all over himself and their grassy battlefield. The others gasp in shock, and Estë faints.

There is an unspoken rule that no recreation or healing is to be done here, and Aulë channels his inner strength to throw Melkor off before he loses his eyes.

“You little _beast_.” he growls, forming a thick silver hammer in one hand. “I shall crush your foolishness at once.”

“That’s the spirit, you HEATHEEEEEEEEEEAAAARRHHGHN!” Melkor unleashes a mighty roar that splits the ground beneath Aulë’s feet, the environment rumbling so terribly that nobody can keep their balance. Cruel chill frosts the ensuing mountain that pulverizes Aulë inside an entrapment of rock. A blizzard whips Melkor’s long black hair about and he feels his own power become absolute – the time is _now_ for him to make his final move. Struggles among the Ainur are always quick to show the stronger out of two. Melkor knows this, and penetrates Aulë’s mind. His primary skill lies in dominating the wills of others but even so it is difficult to get through. Then he realizes the other Valar channeling their energies to protect Aulë from serious harm, allowing him to stand a chance against Melkor.

“That’s… CHEATING!” Melkor shrieks and Aulë feels broken glass scraping his Fëa as his supports are stripped away. A cacophony of chaotic howling resounds in the empty space that Melkor fills, beating upon Aulë’s mind with all his strength. And that just happens to be more than Aulë can bear. He tries to shove the darker Vala out but his focus is mangled as is his flesh-pulp Fána. The mountains fall away to reveal two spirits tangled, Melkor the clear victor. Bare to every Ainu around, Melkor has won. Aulë however will not die, as Melkor withdraws in time to gloat.

“SEE?” he barks, bodying himself and raising both hands to the darkened sky. “THE MIGHTIEST OF _ALL_!” He sprints through the parting crowd to point at Mairon, who stands on a golden pedestal crafted by the now recovering Aulë. “I have won you fair and square! Come to me, my precious Mairon!”

Mairon squints. “Excuse me?” The corners of his winged black and red eyeliner are dripping. “I am not _property_ to be **bartered**! I will not have you, and nor will anyone else. You are a savage, Melkor, and you have hurt my Master.” He jumps down from the pedestal, running to disperse into particles of energy that aid Aulë’s near shattered condition. One word rings out in the air. “Begone.”

Melkor stands in place, chest heaving from the effort of such great physical exertion. His throat tightens in a sudden bodily sabotage against the duty of breathing and he coughs, spluttering out a few drops of blood. The others are laughing at him again. Tulkas is on the floor, rolling around with glee. Classic Mairon, with his savvy and sensible sayings.

Melkor casts his body away and his sorrow is felt in the air even when it cannot be seen on his face. He leaves. No-one follows.

\--

Melkor wails into the Void as it is all that will listen now as Aulë is attended to, Mairon seemingly forever lost. Combustion echoes all around, deafening him with supernova blasts and entire solar systems caving in. His fury and grief is terrible to behold even for those without sentience, and in the vastness of space he floats.

Often has Melkor sought the Eternal Flame here in the place that is Dark to the unenlightened. Here, one’s thoughts so easily turn astray. Melkor has thought here long of murder, the best ways in which to slaughter his fellow Ainu in order to grasp what should be his. Melkor disagrees with Eru’s _fate_ , and has decided millenia ago that _fairness_ has never been his father’s primary objective. No, there is something greater, perhaps balance for the world or something in his vision that Melkor cannot percieve, that gives reason to all the madness. Melkor embodies the madness, and as Eru has once said, _it is his will._

Mairon is fated to Aulë. Melkor believes this can change.

~

Aulë is walking alone to his halls when a familiar presence invades his body and roots him to the ground. Stiff, his muscles scream so bound are they to his new, strong Fána. The nerve endings are young. They ache with raw fear.

A bluish tint falls across the world as night descends upon Valinor, immediate and with no regard to the light of the Trees. The all-encompassing darkness destroys every silver shimmer and silences the bells. There is no air, for Melkor is come in the form of pure black horror with a killing intent. He fills Aulë’s vision then robs him of sight, toying with his perception the further he worms into the Vala’s mind. Aulë tries to resist, laughter resounding inside his head so deep that it distorts his capacity to hear. The electricity of his functioning brain surges with Melkor’s intrusive might until it explodes, slick and heavy tendrils taking up the bloodied space. Aulë’s body dies from the sheer pain and his Fëa is left bare. He has not yet rested from his ordeals. He knows this is the End.

Melkor’s screeching is akin to a sharp, otherworldly inhale that consumes both light and all that exists in the world of the living. The word _Nazgul_ comes to mind in Melkor’s own black tongue and Aulë cries out, voiceless. There are no taunts, there is no hesitation. Melkor unsheathes his father-given might, that which he is fated and born with, and maims his sibling beyond recognition.

The first thing he takes are the Hands.

~

Aulë wonders about the price of his own sanity as he desperately tries to reform his body. His face bubbles with a substance that is not flesh. Melkor watches him as a pair of glowing red eyes, judging, harsh.

Melkor feels what of Aulë’s power he has taken within him and thinks to ruminate on his newfound skills. That is, if knowledge can be gleaned from stolen strength alone. He leaves Aulë naked and cold, and Valinor does not brighten for the broken Vala this night.

Underground, Mairon curls up in bed. As always he has focussed on himself and thinks just how grateful Aulë should be to have him, with his capabilities and whatnot. He is Aulë’s most loyal servant and none can craft better than him.

He has never felt joy in his work compared to the praise Melkor has given him.

A part of him craves for the lavish, sultry words combined with his Master’s satisfying touch. He believes he deserves it all for what he has done.

Then he thinks what _has_ he done other than practice to gain Aulë’s favour and build simple things beneath his skill when asked?

The air is sucked out of the room and the fireplace is silenced.

Mairon narrows his eyes, glancing about. Melkor’s flowers thrive in a vase, peeping at him despairingly.

_‘Has Melkor kept my gifts? Does his fortress retain my craft and his finger my ring?’_

Mairon tries to light the fire with his flaming index finger. A dark cloud seeps out instead and a screaming face is formed.

 _‘Sorcery.’_ A voice whispers inside his mind. ‘ _It is my gift to you.’_

“Another….” Mairon says. He stands against his own conscious will. “More.”

 _‘Come outside.’_ Mairon is pulled. He stops by the door. Footsteps tap then begin to drag with a _shhhhf shhf_ along the carpet. A steady _thump_ bangs against the wall. It stops outside Mairon’s door. Heavy, rasping breaths wheeze through the crack beneath.

Mairon disembodies to pass through the door and spots a mangled lump on the floor, bleeding and with Aulë’s Fëa-signature. Overriding his initial shock is a strange pleasure that both frightens and intrigues him.

 _‘He gets what he deserves.’_ The voice is beginning to sound like his own, changing in pitch and thickness to vibrate Mairon’s vocal chords in miniscule increments. Mairon begins to hum as he walks down the hall, up the stairs over and over again.

He breathes the fresh night air and at once inhales Melkor’s unique, powerful musk. His face is buried in a thick swath of black robes before he can taste the air for the presence of others but none of that is necessary. Melkor is here, and Melkor is inside him.

Confident in his own power, Melkor brutally splits apart the sections of Mairon’s mind. The sweet, insecure Maia is torn with a desperate need for validation even if complete submission is required. The curious, independent Ainu becomes hungry for power, hands groping at Melkor’s natural Fána. The core of Mairon’s being begins to blacken, and Melkor is not careful at all.

Mairon’s memories can be pushed but not eliminated, and in the wake of the Change he is stuffed with regret and terror until it blends together with his current self. Melkor caresses him and bloats him with might until Mairon peaks with a cry.

“Mine.” Melkor growls, clutching Mairon close to his chest. “My Precious.”


	8. Chapter 8

In Utumno, Mairon is given a room of his own to lounge in absolute comfort. Melkor wants him to feel welcome here, in his own fortress where light dares not reach. Inside the cold stone halls and bare square rooms, there is nothing to brighten the place up. A few of Melkor’s twisted spirits however can place ghostly flames in iron-worked braziers to light the dour environment. Melkor does not ask Mairon to go to work so soon, curious about the Maia’s acclimatization in such an inhospitable place. He knows Mairon has lived in the lap of luxury while he himself took comfort in his own hand-hewn caves.

“Is there anything you need?” he asks as Mairon chooses the largest room, creating furniture out of the air with his newfound power. Melkor has never seen a Maia of Aulë wield the power of the Flame for purposes like this, and a bitterness scorches the inside of his throat. Still, he remains quiet. Mairon can create for him, and will not be allowed to insult his abilities ever again. Might will be the negotiating matter here… in all forms.

Mairon is transmuting a pile of spider silk into bedsheets when he shakes his head.

“Leave me be. I would make these arrangements more suitable for someone of my prestige.”

Melkor, watching with his eyes wide and jaw agape shakes his head slowly. “No, I want to watch.” His rapt attention burns into the back of Mairon’s head, where the luscious curls of hair are glowing a fiery orange-gold.

“Then be silent.” Mairon forms a huge canopied bed dripping with reams of silk and velvet, drawing materials from the very air. Melkor thinks for a moment that _this is a Vala’s ability, perhaps I have given Mairon too much_ but he banishes underestimations from his mind when he knows the Maia can hear. Mairon is quick and precise in his makings of a perfect bedroom. The walls are a rich, earthy red complete with golden trims in geometric patterns. On the floor is space enough for a carpet, something Mairon will make out of warg skins if Melkor lets him kill the twisted wolves. The black iron-wrought bed is big enough for Melkor, but Mairon has made it so that he can orient his body in every which way and still be comfortable. Soft crimson pillows rest upon the fluffy black covers. Mairon drapes silk over the open windows, enchants said windows to keep out the cold and turns to Melkor.  
“I require things. Fetch me some trinkets.”

“Uh…” Melkor looks around, then back at Mairon’s pristine face. “Where am I going to get those?”

Annoyed, Mairon clenches his hands into fists. “Are you so unprepared for my service that you do not have offerings, jewelry, _riches?_ Aulë told me you would have a great wealth of both knowledge and power, shiny things stolen from the virtuous set aside.”

A few wandering Shades listen from around the hallway, and tiny lizards click with mild aggression. Melkor is their Master, and Mairon is New. In Utumno, newcomers are tested and ranked by strength. Without touching Mairon, the lesser servants of Darkness know he wields great power. But not more than their Lord. Never more than him.

Melkor squints. “I would offer you a banquet with sacrifices made of the Firstborn but alas, there is not much in my domain that I think you would enjoy. If you wish for shiny things, make them yourself. You’ve practiced, have you not?”

“That’s not the point! I want things from _you_ , not those made by my own hands. Clearly my craft is the best and I would do well to adorn myself with my work but you may comprehend art forms I do not, and I would have you treat me properly.” Mairon dissolves the tall black boots his Fána wears and flounces onto the bed, his ankle-length hair curling in slick rivers around him. He remains clothed with a tight red tunic and leggings combination.

Melkor stares at him, splayed there in all his glory with a childlike pout many Maiar use to gain favour. This one however is unique, and _very_ persuasive.

“I gave you a gold necklace once, spun of my own hair and essence.” The Vala’s voice is thick and gravely, rolling in his throat. “You cast it aside.”

“My Master took it from me.” Mairon rolls his eyes, flipping one hand up and down. “Precious, you call me. Does your precious not deserve additional gifts?”

“What do you want, then? Flowers? Weapons? Servants?” Melkor growls a little as his frustration begins seeping. There is that word again. _Master_.

“Servants would be nice, but how do I know you can control them?” Mairon is loathe to use his energy to twist the minds of others after all his work building this room. Melkor winks.

“My little ones are full of my will to do what is right, and will scour the depths of Arda for anything I require. All I must do is send a thought and they will listen to you too.”

“I want pretty servants that have a grasp on the physical realm. None of those… ape-like ghosts that mock the human form.” Mairon turns up his nose and Melkor’s blood boils at the insult to his intelligent servants. Down the hall, a few wraiths can be heard sniffling.

“I will fetch you some elves then, when they awake at Father’s behest. Until then, wait for the breaking.” Melkor turns to leave in preparation for sending out location scouts but Mairon clicks his fingers twice. His left eye twitches.

“Spin me some nice gold things, too. I’ll be waiting~”

Melkor leaves for Valinor, to move the things from his cave into Utumno. Kosomot and Tevildo assist him, Kosomot flying around proclaiming his new name _Gothmog_ while Tevildo is distracted by the grass. Melkor chants his favourite song in his head, one that reminds him that _he_ is the rightful King of the Valar, of Arda, and all existence, powerful and brave. With his mind he sends streams of lava from deep within the ground all the way into Middle-Earth, up North where the cold air hardens them into grotesque statues resembling him. All the ore he takes, raw minerals and unpolished gems. These things, Mairon will be able to work with. Then he remembers that Mairon will expect fancy objects and rooms once he tires of his chambers and sighs.

“Gothmog. Go and steal five of Aulë’s Maiar for me and bind them with your will. We’ll need to put them to work straight away.”

“Yes, Master.” Gothmog’s toothy face splits into a grin, a little glowing drool dripping from the corners of his mouth. Tevildo asks what he can do and Melkor tasks him with stealing _all_ of Aulë’s supplies. Tevildo is sneaky, strong and clever. He can handle it, Melkor thinks.

~

Gothmog descends upon Aulë’s home with black wings beating the air to such great temperatures, the ground dries and cracks. The Maiar scream in horror when they are taken, bound to their bodies and dragged on chains of loyalty all the way to Utumno. Aulë does not know, but he hears the commotion and is afraid.

He has always teased Melkor for his ability to feel fear and wonders if he deserves this.

Tevildo comes next, his giant feline body bounding happily across the rooftops in Valinor. He digs into the ground, destroys layers of fine residence and manipulates the air to drag out every last ingot, stone and tool. He and Gothmog are Melkor’s most powerful servants aside from Mairon, and get their jobs done efficiently.

They return to Melkor and task the primitive monkey-like servants with distributing the goods. The Goblins are the closest Melkor can get to upstanding biped forms that are capable of following verbal instruction. Gothmog grunts in Melkor’s favoured speech patterns, the Black Tongue that the servants have been picking up.

“Tools there. Make big room. Shiny in the corner. Different colour, different pile. Go.”

The Goblins chitter in their high, warbling voices and get to work. They do not question Gothmog, whose power signature is similar to Melkor’s own. They feel their Master’s presence in this creature, seeing cruelty and authority in those beady white eyes.

Tevildo curls up beside a lava pool and sleeps, the hot rocks warming his fluffy body. He has done enough today, and will dream sweetly of the chaos in Valinor.

Melkor goes to Mairon’s bedroom to rest his sore mind, having screwed around with time and space enough to make any Vala’s head hurt. Inside he sees Mairon has disrobed and lies nude amongst the sheets, legs spread and an arm bent over his head. When the door opens Mairon twitches, unwilling to let Melkor see his stunning body. There are two things in his mind: ancient, deep-rooted insecurities and the newer belief that nobody deserves to see his well-crafted form. Melkor stills Mairon with a surge of lust and locks him in place, admiring him. Mairon’s thighs look wonderfully soft, melting into his voluptuous buttocks and creamy, pale stomach. Delicate pink nipples stiffen as the air chills and Mairon whines.

“Get out! You’re making it… cold…”

“I can warm you.” says Melkor and leaves the door open, pouncing on the bed. His tattered black, stained robes disappear and his muscular grey body is revealed, twice Mairon’s size. He envelopes the soft little Maia in a squeeze, allowing Mairon to move. Mairon thrashes about at once, Melkor’s touch sticky in the way that it lingers, groping for flesh.

To Melkor, Mairon feels like a sun-warmed bread roll without a single flake or crust, pliable and delicious. Never has he caressed such wonderous thighs, rippling ever so slightly as he cups Mairon’s ass in a smack.

“I know just what you’ll be wearing during your time here.” Melkor whispers huskily into Mairon’s ear, making his Fána just a bit smaller to better engage with the trembling Maia. “Nothing.”

“I… I won’t stand for that!” Mairon squeaks, his voice so high from the sudden smack that his voice breaks into a cough. “Gh! Stop… stop that! You’re going too fast, you damned brute!”

Melkor rises as an enormous shadow then and pins Mairon to the bed by the shoulders. His hands are big enough to span Mairon’s collarbones and then some.

“What did you call me?”

“The truth, Melkor! Don’t take out your desperation on me! Get OFF!” Mairon throws Melkor’s own power right back at him and Melkor flinches, an acidic denial stinging at his eyes. He does not have many nerve endings there, a weakness long since eradicated, but when it goes through to his brain he cries out and Tevildo comes running.

“Maaaster! Whatever is the matter?” A few unseen servants linger beyond the realm of mortal sight, sensed by both Melkor and Mairon. Tevildo’s pointy ears twitch, then he sniffs the scent of repulsion mixed with wanton lust. Mairon certainly is something.

“He… He @#$%!*’d me!” Melkor invents a new word in his imminent anguish and shakes his head rapidly to clear it. By this time Mairon is clothed and glaring at him, fiery eyes ablaze.

“Of course I did! You are not to touch me unless I request it-” Mairon is thrown back onto the bed as Melkor shoves him in the chest. Slithering in close with his servants staring at his nude backside, Melkor licks a long stripe up Mairon’s neck through the collar of his robes.

“One thing you must know, my dear Mairon… is that I take what I want.” The shimmering fabric rips as Melkor sinks his claws in and tears it away. He sucks and licks at Mairon’s neck, causing the Maia to gasp and squirm. Mairon’s body twitches as he is marked but he cannot escape Melkor, not when that huge, heavy body is atop him and there is will so strong it nearly crushes him keeping him in place.  “What I want is you…” Melkor groans as the sweet, fleshy taste of Mairon’s skin comes apart in his mouth and he swallows it down with a mouthful of thin blood. The pressure at which it spurts out suggests Mairon is very stressed but Melkor cares little and licks it all up. Tevildo ushers the other servants away and stares all on his own between Melkor’s tense legs. In all his years of serving his Master, he has never seen anything like… _that_.

“Gah! Ngh, st-stop it! Melkor, please… it… hurts…!” Mairon’s whining and writhing brings a sheen of sweat to his heated figure. His skin glows a little more, slick and shining. Melkor moves lower to explore the various tastes of his hard-earned Maia, remembering to keep Mairon in place with his hands and mind. Open wounds and flowing blood taint Mairon’s fine bedsheets, rips in the drenched material caused by sharp talons. Melkor’s greedy hands pull Mairon away from the pillows, flipping him over so that the Vala can sit on him.

“You will know me as your Lord and Master, Mairon, and never disobey me again.” Both hands wrap around the Maia’s throat from behind. Melkor feels the twitching pulse, muscles bared from his own savage teeth and knows Mairon has turned off his ability to feel pain. Sensible, savvy Mairon. When will he learn just how much Melkor enjoys teaching through agony?

Scraps of clothing litter the bed and Melkor rubs himself along Mairon’s back, enjoying the feel of those wonderfully sculpted muscles beneath his heavy package. His length is half of Mairon’s spine and finds oodles of wet hair to bury itself in, tickling the back of Mairon’s head with wetness. Mairon closes his eyes and moans at the heat, intense like the burn of overheated metal.

“Aaaaiiiii….”

Melkor licks his dry lips and sways his hips from side to side, clenching his thighs around Mairon’s sides. “You like that, do you?”

Mairon doesn’t know yet and at his Lord’s mercy, grunts something in his sweet, clear voice. Soon the Change will deepen his expressions and Melkor will delight, he knows. The Vala chokes him for more words, finding his own pleasure before Mairon even considers it. Melkor does not enter his Precious’s body, not yet.

Tonight, he is satisfied with the outer skin.

The innards he will know later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i know its a bit creepy lol


	9. Chapter 9

Mairon is not allowed to leave his room when Melkor is by his side. This he learns when he tries to enter the hallway and Melkor drags him by the hair back into bed, extending an arm beyond reason to do so.

“Stay with me.”

“Hmph.” Mairon scoffs, settling into his side of the bed, thinking bitterly that the entire thing should be his. He made it, after all. Melkor is an intruder.

Melkor clicks his tongue. “You reply with _yes, Master_ instead of such rudeness, my Precious.”

Mairon turns in a whirlwind of sudden fury and glares. “Forgive me for being slow to pick up the rules of your stupid little game, _Master_. I do not like to lie, nor consider you as anything above me in social rank.”

The Maia’s words cut him deep and Melkor steels his nerves, face stoic. He wants to touch Mairon and have the Maia touch him back, lingering for purposes of companionship and maybe even love. Melkor does not understand love, or at least the conventional definition of it as the Ainur say. He does not feel the mingling of spirits reaching for each other when he comes near the abraisive little Maia. That cannot lie, and apparently neither can Mairon. But Melkor knows he is crafty and will learn the arts of deception on his own as his transformation progresses.

Melkor will have his lieutenant, and he will raise armies out of the Firstborn. Then, Manwë will see who deserves to be King. Tulkas will forsake his title of the Strong. Nienna’s tears will flood the oceans and Illuvatar will see his son for the mighty, deserving being he is.

So Melkor believes, and fights to keep Mairon close.  
It is hard however with his own flammable temper and monumental wrath.

 _‘Threatening to destroy everything he loves will not work. I have already done that, and I doubt he knows._ ’

“I have a gift for you, my insolent darling.” Melkor’s saccharine smile makes Mairon want to vomit. Still, the Maia is curious.

“What is it, then? I do hope it’s a warm bath and a release from your terrible clutches. You _reek_ of blood and cock.”

“ _Your_ blood, Precious.” Melkor glances down. Indeed, he is hard and throbbing for Mairon to move his legs just a bit more so he can stick himself between them. He’s never tried intercrural before.

“Water. I don’t suppose there’s any here, is there?” Mairon sits up and glances out the window. “No. Just lava pools and ill-placed ice.”

“Do not insult my elements, Mairon. I will take you outside if you desire cleaning.”

“I can look after myself, thank you very much. Lava does not _cleanse_ , it sticks and burns and is generally horrible. I may be able to sit in fire but THAT?” Mairon looks pointedly at the glowing reddish bead of volcanic liquid beading at the tip of Melkor’s arousal. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Then stay like that until I think to wear your pretty skin as a hat.” Melkor nuzzles into Mairon’s neck where the self-healing Fána has already scarred over last night’s wound. When Mairon has a chance, he will recreate his body. Then, Melkor’s kiss marks and slash-memories will be nowhere to be seen or felt.

Mairon will win the game if he has to eat white-hot iron or be branded on the ass.

Melkor has other ideas.

“Do you want anything to eat?” asks Melkor amidst nibbling along Mairon’s jawline. “There are heaps of wargs I’ve bred for meat.”

“No. I want honeyed wine and garlic bread.” Shriveling into a ball Mairon curls on himself, forcing Melkor to adapt. “And don’t do that! Your teeth make me bleed.”

“I order you to stop telling me what I can and cannot do.” Melkor grumbles, probing Mairon’s mind to see how well the thought takes. Mairon understands the command, remembers last night, but has no clear connection between the risk and reward of obeisance. Melkor fills the empty space as quickly as he can with many thorned seeds. They sprout into vines that connect Mairon’s need for validation with serving Melkor’s needs, aligning Master’s pleasure with unspoken praise. Within a few centuries, these values should take root. Until then, Melkor will condition his Maia by hand.

“What gives you… the right to order me?” Mairon spits, hating the predicament he’s gotten himself into. A few ideas come to mind as he reconsiders defying Melkor but the words have been said and he wants to see their fruit.

“Perhaps being the Mightiest in Ëa with the will to command the world has meaning to you? Mairon, all forms of life will bow to me when my domination is complete. It starts with you, my Precious. I ask of you kindness and servitude in exchange for the strength I have offered.”

“Pah, kindness?” Mairon laughs then and Melkor silences him with a hand around his mouth.

“Shut your mouth. Mock me again and you will regret it.”

“I wasn’t-” Mairon’s muffled words are interrupted by Melkor growling into his ear.

“ _Lie to me and learn the true meaning of torment.”_

Mairon chooses his next words carefully. He does not bite Melkor’s thick-fingered hand.

“Fine. Kindness and servitude. Coming from you, it’s a wonderful euphemism for sexual slavery.”

“WHAT?” Melkor sits up now and drags Mairon’s attention into his own eyes. “What errant thought birthed that irrational monster?!”

“Is it not obvious? You want my body, as everyone does.” Mairon’s gaze mists with dark memories that Melkor does not dare peep at. “I have been whipped and know how to act like I enjoy it. If you wish to subject me to that again, _Master_ , then I request you kill me first.”

Melkor blinks. Somewhere, he feels Mairon reaching, hoping for a measure of understanding. He sees the image of Mairon bound as a leather whip cracks across his reddened backside. Mairon watches him harden and tears wet his eyes.

~

The next day, Melkor wanders out as a huge black cloud to explore Arda while the goblins stack stones in the underground rooms. While they make furniture and construct forges with the assistance of five unwilling Maiar, Melkor comes across the vast bay of Cuiviénen in the East. There is a starlight here that repulses him so greatly that he cannot descend into the water, nor close to the Wild Wood nearby. Shielding his eyes, he forms a body large enough to see above the trees. At the edge of the wood, his gleaming red gaze casts an aura of dread as far as he can see. Soft voices cry out in the near distance.

 _‘Are those… the Elves?’_ Melkor knows his Father’s thought perhaps a little more than the other Valar, and the pointy-eared race of beings he suspects to now exist have been much considered. In Valinor images have been wrought of the slender, ethereal beings with long hair and pale skin. The Ainur have patterned their bodies after them, understanding the shapes spoken of in the Music. Melkor takes the vaguest shape, but in many ways it is _wrong_. Gnarled, twisted, muscles bulging instead of sleek and eyes like drops of blood in a sea of black.

Melkor tries to peep into the bay but his vision is obscured by the permanent starlight. It seems that night lingers here, but not his own dark, terrible kind. The clear, fresh water ripples from the few splashing elves that have summoned the courage to touch it. Others yet unseen by Melkor lay in the grass, forming words to express their wonder. They are the first in Arda to speak with voices of their own, not taught dark tongues by the Dark Lord. Melkor hears them and scowls. So alike to the Maiar, playful and curious.

 _‘Here I will wait until a few come astray. Those who wander will become **my** children. I have… some ideas.’ _ He sits, not bothering to take a fair form and grows a large, leathery pouch upon his back. When the elves come, he does not want to crush them in his hands. Their spirits will break first.

Melkor waits for _months_ before the first elf appears, along with a few straggling behind in the thick, leafy forest. They play in the bushes, picking at berries and singing with the birds. None wear clothes, and their tongues are strange, lyrical as they warble sweet words to each other. Melkor waits, the illusion of a mountain disguising his intimidating form. As the elves near the edge of the forest, drawn by the promise of unknown lands and light, they do not recognize the darkness until it is too late. They understand no fear, not until Melkor reveals himself and scoops up ten in one large hand. His face is sheer abhorrence, like their own only in structure. His hands burn their hallowed, soft flesh. In various pitches they cry, confused What are these sensations, and who is this… being?

Melkor holds them in amazement, the first to lay hands upon his Father’s craft. Their Fëar are unique, with an immortality like the Ainur’s own. They all appear quite young, adult bodied but lacking wisdom and age.

“Hello, my little ones…” Melkor croons in Valarin, knowing little of the burgeoning elf-speech. “You are fated to do great things for me.”

The elves have few words for their current emotions and wail at each other, trying to escape Melkor’s grip. They have felt no pain before this moment and at once distrust the giant Vala.

“Into the bag.” Melkor throws them over his shoulder, determined to carry them home on his back where he can experiment with them until they die. If they are immortal enough to breed continuously, there will be no need to return here and wait for more. The walk to Utumno is long and peaceful, Melkor’s head filled with all sorts of questions. What do the Eldar eat? Do they rest? How do their minds work, and how strong can they be? All things he is eager to know and brings the elves over the Iron Mountains into the safety of his fortress. Outside, various creatures are milling about fighting and feeding. They flee at Melkor’s coming.

Melkor glances at a few goblins as he walks on. _‘They surely share some of the same characteristics, able to comprehend and walk on two five-toed feet. Hm… these similar bodies. Why are they linked? Did Yavanna make some of her animals in likeness or as tribute to the Eldar?’_

Inside the leather pouch on Melkor’s back, the elves have piled up atop each other and are shivering, soaked in silvery tears. Their feeble cries continue until they see firelight, at which they fall silent.

“You like that?” Melkor dumps the elves onto a stone table that is four times too big for them to sit at. “Here.” He holds one by the arm close to a bowl of flames and the elf begins to shriek as its skin bubbles and burns. Melkor removes the elf after ten seconds, still holding it until he realizes its entire body has caught fire and like most natural beings, it will die if not extinguished. He drops the elf and by this time it has become a mangled, flailing mess that soon expires, turned to ash. The others scream and weep, holding each other desperately. They try to run when Melkor reaches for them again. He chases them with his hand to the edge of the table and one jumps, laying motionless on the floor afterwards. The others can do nothing more than cling.

Melkor scoops the one from the floor and pokes him, seeing blood ooze from where a bone has broken through skin, fractured and sharp.

“How do you heal?” he asks, placing the elf on the table to see. Within minutes the elf’s blood clots on its own, as the wound is not very large or aggravated. The bone still sticks out of the elf’s upper arm, causing great agony. He does not move after several attempts to do so. Eyes open and chest heaving, he sobs.

Melkor leaves the elf where he is and decides to name him in the Black Speech.

“Piz-lagûrz.” He points at the elf, who wails even louder. “For your injury, you are named thus.” Speaking the Dark Tongue, Melkor knows the elves will catch onto it if he teaches them a few basic concepts first. They are too frightened to learn much at the moment however and little _broken-arm_ does not even know his own name. Forsaking Valarin for more guttural sounds, Melkor turns to the other elves. With one finger he pushes some to the ground and parts their legs to see what they have. He knows of sex only from seeing Mairon and Aulë do it, peeping at them in Valinor. It is commonly done for reproduction, and he wonders if the elves know about it yet. He separates them, five with penises on the left and five without on the right. Those without have small, delicate flower-shaped parts between their legs, like rose petals squeezed together. Melkor picks up a male and puts him atop a female.

“Go on.” He rubs them together as encouragement but the elves only feel pain and try to get away.

 _‘This shall prove fruitless without some proper stimulation. I… shall breed them later, once adequate preparations have been made. Let us not be hasty with these fragile little things.’_ He steps away from the table and clicks his fingers. A wraith floats in, then back out as Melkor instructs it to bring Tevildo over.

After a few minutes, Tevildo wanders into the room and complains about having been woken up. Upon sight of the elves however he falls silent.

“I will need you to create accomodation for these small creatures, and go to Manwë’s gardens atop Taniquetil where the purple flowers fall. Collect many and bring them to me.” Melkor’s gaze drifts back to the elves. He can only make his own body so small that his hands are thrice the size of the elves’ heads.

_‘Interacting with them will be difficult…’_

“At once, Master.” Tevildo purrs, staring at the elves who look at him in amazement. It seems everything around here is disproportionately huge. “A room will be prepared with a box, if you wish.”

“No no, I don’t want a box. I mean, a large one, sure, but put some leaves and rocks in there, and some warg skins for them to rest on.” Melkor knows what a lack of stimulation can do to perfectly healthy minds and does not wish for his children to go mad. “Ah, this one died.” He points to the charred corpse. “See if you can catch its soul before it flies away.”

Tevildo takes a moment and then says, “It is heading for the Unseen Realm. Shall I body it for you?”

“Mhm.” Melkor waves his hand about, caring little for what the elf will body itself as once given a solid hold in reality. As Tevildo works on getting the bluish-grey ghost visible, catching wisps of being from around the room, Melkor sits in a nearby chair. The elves are huddled around Piz-lagûrz (who we shall call Piz) and trying to keep him warm. Some of them glow at the hands and Melkor parts them with a finger to see what’s going on. They are healing, one pushing at the bone to get it back in and fused with the rest of Piz’s body.

“So you can heal each other…” Melkor rests his cheek in one hand, wondering if Mairon can do that.

 _‘Come to think of it, where_ **is** _Mairon? Shouldn’t he be greeting me at the gates with a smile? Ach. He doesn’t love me, of course. He’s only just learning how to deal with being mine…’_

He shakes his head, hair spilling down his bare shoulders. Mairon can be attended to at any time. The elves at present will consume his thought, this he knows. He watches them until their wraith friend comes nearby to sit, and Tevildo leaves for Valinor. The goblins have begun constructing a room with a walled enclosure in the center, throwing rocks and plant bits haphazardly in there. Some bitey centipedes find their way in too, very small and with plenty of venom. Finally, a bleeding warg-skin fresh and fuzzy goes into the corner. Nine hours pass in the process of preparing the room, and at last Melkor is informed that the work is complete. He picks up the elves and they try to escape his hands, wiggling about and falling back onto the table.

“Fucking still yourselves.” Melkor growls, shoving them into his back pouch once again. “You’re going to have to get used to me if you want to live.”

The elves do not understand and cry continuously until they are put into their new environment. They cannot scale the walls, which have downward-facing spikes as suggested by Tevildo. It is a sort of playpen for them, and Melkor looks down into it to see what they will do. Piz sits on the fur with a dead look in his eyes and the others immediately notice movement nearby. Huge bugs crawl towards them, pincers snapping and legs scuttling across the floor. The elves _scream_ and Melkor is so entertained that he laughs and forgets to protect his children. Bitten once, a female thrashes about and manages to smack a centipede in the side. It attempts to consume her but she reacts with instinct and bites it in half, wailing what Melkor assumes to be curses.

“Brogud.” he names her, meaning _nibble_. She looks up and bares her teeth at him as the other elves shrink away in fear. Melkor only chuckles and searches the box for other intruders, flicking away everything until the elves have their peace.

“I will see you all tomorrow for breeding experiments.” he says, turning to exit the room. The elves fall silent as he leaves. They look at each other once he is gone and begin to whisper.

~~~

The moment Melkor gets to the top floor of Utumno he is barely past the stairs when Mairon appears before him. The Maia wears his usual orange-haired Fána, pleasing to Melkor’s eyes.

‘ _Ah!’_ Melkor remembers at last the gift he had planned for Mairon to receive a while ago. _‘Perhaps he is ready to receive my offerings.’_

“Where have you _been?”_ Mairon spits like an infuriated witch with a mouthful of hot wax, voice pitched so high it hurts Melkor’s ears. “You left me all alone in this horrible place with nothing to do! I do NOT look forward to a life of boredom and neglect, what with being immortal and all…”

“My precious darling, I have been working exceedingly hard to acquire beautiful servants for you, now that the Firstborn walk the lands. I have also had many things crafted for you, garments and jewelry alike. All to fit your gorgeous body.” In a flourish Melkor produces robes out of negative space, taking form as the wisps of residual power in the air coagulate. A thick, slippery black thing, Melkor holds it up for Mairon to see. There are no permanent holes to put limbs into as it drips, ever-changing. Mairon rolls his eyes.

“An abject failure once again, _Master_. Hmph. Show me something _intelligent_ , why don’t you? Where are the promised pretty servants and golden rings?”

“Downstairs.” Melkor plays with the fabric mass in his hands, staring at it. _‘This does not look like a failure to me…’_ He notices Mairon clothed in extravagant red drapery and asks, “What you’re wearing now… I have had much better things made for you.”

“By _other Maiar_ , I presume? Show me, then.”

“Under one condition.”

Wary, Mairon narrows his black-lined eyes. “What is it?”

“You _must_ keep an article on your unchanging body at all times.”

Mairon snorts in pure derision at the Vala before him. “You would deprive me of my natural ability to shift form?”

“Yes.” Melkor grins. “If you wish to see what I will give you.”

“Fine.” Mairon pushes past Melkor to go downstairs, dragging the Vala by one hand. “I will see.”

_‘Surely it will not be permanent. He cannot possibly observe me at all times.’_

So they go downstairs to the underground forges where Aulë’s five stolen Maiar have become Melkor’s, wearing ragged brown tunics and too-tight breeches. Melkor smacks one of them on the ass as he goes past, heading for a golden chest in a corner. The Maiar whimper upon sight of him, praying for Mairon to save them. Mairon hears their voices in his head and is glad that he is the only one Melkor seems to treat as a sentient being. The Maiar are whipped by some Goblins into continuing their work, crafting weapons nonstop and imbued with Might to keep from fainting. Already their Fánar are beginning to warp, eyes becoming dark and skin blistering until raw flesh is revealed.

In the dark red rocky caves that the forges occupy, the temperatures rise beyond boiling point. So far beyond in fact that only Ainur and flame-resistant beings can survive here. Melkor opens the chest and shows to Mairon a pair of knee-high boots with pointed heels and forty golden eyelets. Pure black leather, they are laced onto Mairon’s feet when the curious Maia does not protest. Melkor knows Mairon wears no pants under his robes. He shows Mairon some silken panties that match the boots, with delicate lace more suited to one of Varda’s handmaidens than a tough, fiery Maia. Mairon snickers at it but remembers his promise and once he slips it on, he finds the caress against his buttocks so tight and comfortable that heat rises in his cheeks.

“How… is this so well-tailored?” he asks, looking back to the Maiar. “They do not know my body.”

“I do.” says Melkor, “And the wraiths watch. Their hands are cold when they touch you… you will forgive me for this. I know you would not let me measure you otherwise.”

Mairon at once feels molested and remembers the odd shivers in his crotch that now translate into fine seams and perfect curves. His ass fills out the underwear quite well, bouncing as he walks to the other side of the room. He casts his robes away, baring his upper body. “What more?”

Melkor lowers his eyelids, lips curving into a lecherous smile. Ah, the taste of his own saliva pooling in his mouth. How he wishes it would mingle freely with Mairon’s, along with other suspicious fluids. He reaches into the chest, steam curling at the corners of his mouth as his breath evaporates. “This…” A pile of leather straps with ornate gold buckles is waved around for Mairon to see. Upon closer inspection Mairon sees it all wraps around his body to accent his fine muscles.

“What form of clothing is this?” he asks, taking it from Melkor and wondering how to put it on. “It offers very little in the way of decency. I would much prefer more silks.” He has seen Aulë wear things like this, of very similar craft. Melkor puts it back in the chest, showing Mairon some wispy material that fades from bright red to black. It hangs over Mairon’s shoulders with free-flowing wisps, the neckline so low Mairon’s nipples peep out of the fitted chest part. His stomach is barely covered as ribbon-like sections of material flutter about. It both tickles and arouses him mildly, and he smiles. “This… I suppose is tolerable.”

“There is more.” says Melkor, and gives to Mairon five rings, some with mysterious, swirling stones that look like gateways to other worlds. The artistry of the various twisted metals pleases Mairon, influenced by both Melkor and Aulë’s visions what with all the little Maiar working to please their new Master. Then, Mairon sees something Melkor himself has made all on his own. It wraps around his neck, and the Vala purrs into his ear with great satisfaction.

“Enjoy~”

“This…?” Mairon tugs at what he realizes is a collar, black leather like his boots and unyielding, threaded with gold. Two flaps hold a D-shaped ring in place, thick enough to attach a chain to. Mairon’s questions die as he begins to feel choked, the collar well-fitted but squeezing him inside. As Melkor rubs his upper arms in reassuring motions, he is bound to his body with the power of the collar. Melkor’s will resides in the inanimate object, able to dominate Mairon even when he is not present. Inside his chest Mairon is bursting with fear, trapped possibly forever if he cannot remove this collar. He cannot see a way to take it off, now that it is sealed around his slender neck. Scrambling to rip it off he panics all the way into Melkor, who holds him tight.

“Shhh, my precious. You will be okay.” Melkor strokes Mairon’s hair, confident now that the Maia cannot actively change his form, any aspects of the Change will be easier to notice. Since the collar incorporates his own Fëa-signature, what with the amount of power put into it, Melkor will be able to track Mairon’s presence no matter how far he goes. It is the same with Gothmog and Tevildo… only they are loyal, Melkor’s might mingled with their individual essences. They are parts of him now. Mairon just needs time.

“You will not run from me now, Mairon. Look at how beautiful you are.” He conjures a mirror out of the air and shows Mairon the wondrous projection he so adores. Mairon at once finds private faults with himself – there is too much flesh bared between the top of his boots at the knees and the crotch of his underwear, the collar makes him look _owned_ , and every aspect of his body is deprived of base freedom. A low, strangled whine seeps out of his thin lips. He makes a desperate effort to change the colour of his hair but only flickers, glowing bright then becoming dull.

“I do not accept your trickery…” Mairon mutters, squirming around as he is forced to look at himself. His own handmade robes lie discarded in a corner. “Let me out of this and I will serve you loyally, clad and without restriction as I wish.”

“But you are ever so appealing like this…” Melkor’s right hand dives to hold Mairon’s chest back against his own waist, then slides down to grip the Maia’s bare, soft stomach. “You have promised obedience already, my scorching little flame. You will look as _I_ wish, and shall come to no harm.”

“Would _you_ like to be bound in the body you wear, Mighty One?!” Mairon begins whining and tries to escape, but without the ability to liquefy his body parts he is stuck with Melkor groping him. He looks down at himself, all delicate and creamy. His flesh reddens in the shape of Melkor’s rough handling. The other Maiar watch in silence, working their metals unconsciously. The goblins pay little attention. “Please… let me be myself.”

“But who are you other than my beloved Precious?” Melkor bends, his tangled black hair scratching at Mairon’s face. “I am here to love you, clothe you, bed you and feed you, and you shall raise armies for me with legions dominated by your own power. I give you all I have, Mairon. The least you may do is listen to me.”

“You have earned no loyalty of mine!” Mairon tries, rasping out curses as he once again tries to escape. His breath is gone by the time he slumps in Melkor’s arms.

“I have acquired you, Mairon, and that is enough.” Nuzzling the top of Mairon’s head, Melkor bodies himself at an appropriate size to do so. “The world belongs to me, and your loyalty is expected after all I have done. You will accept my love, Mairon, or be weakened beyond measure.”

 _‘Anything but that.’_ An innate greed, Mairon’s natural-born lust for power speaks. Melkor hears it and releases him.

“Do not run from me.”

Mairon curls up on the floor and is still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget - there's a disclaimer on my profile if you're gonna yell at me about making Melkor emotionally abusive (not my intent but he's turning out that way LOL OH NO he just wants a break for once lmao someone hug him)


	10. Chapter 10

After resting for a few hours, Melkor goes to check on his elves and at once hears them crying from down the hall. Fully grown adults they are and still they wail like children. Melkor has little experience with either forms of the enchanting Eldar and opens the door to their room. Inside the walled enclosure the elves weep loudly, their voices dying down when they realize Melkor has come.

“Good Void, what is _wrong_ with all of you?”

The Elves do not understand Melkor’s Black Speech and whine at him. A few point to their mouths, and the Dark Lord understands.

“Ah. You’re hungry already? Fine then. Come here.” He grabs them and most do not protest, aside from Piz who yelps in pain. Brogud and a few others chew on Melkor’s fingers and he doesn’t mind much. Those little teeth cannot hurt him when he is bodied large enough to hold nine elves in two hands. The wraith follows them, learning to float in order to keep up. Being noncorporeal has yet to set in to the elf’s mind.

Melkor sets the elves on the table in the room opposite, where they were first inspected yesterday. “Wait here. I’ll get you some food.”

_‘Now what do they eat…?’_ he wonders, rushing out of the room to burst outside and look for an animal to skin. A few wargs bound up to him, tails wagging and fangs dripping with fresh blood. One of them drops a mangled mess at Melkor’s feet and looks up, expecting praise. Melkor will not feed his elves unknown objects and slaughters the wargs in quick, efficient silence.

An hour passes before he is back in the room with a huge bowl of meat. Chopped into the smallest chunks Melkor can handle, half the amount is roasted while the other is raw. He puts it on the table then sits cross-legged opposite the elves, also on the flat surface. Looming over his children, Melkor reaches for one. The elf protests at once, stopping only when set down away from the others. One by one, Melkor moves the elves until they are sitting in a line. None of them move and they all have eyebrows raised in confusion. Melkor then takes out a piece of raw meat from the bowl, the size of his thumbnail.

“Aaps.” he says, looking at the meat and waving it around. He puts it in his mouth and chews obviously before swallowing. Then, he takes a flame-seared piece from the bowl and offers it to the first elf. He repeats the word in Black Speech for _meat_.

Unsure, the elf reaches for it but Melkor holds it back, allowing the elf to reach further until he falls on his face, meatless. Annoyed, the elf stands up and goes for what he can smell is clearly food.

“Aaps.” Melkor speaks a little slower, pointing to the meat. The elf makes an attempt and says, “Ass” in a clean, soft voice. Melkor shakes his head and goes back and forth with the elf until it is pronounced correctly. Once that occurs, Melkor hands over the meat to the elf and watches it be devoured in little bites.

_‘He is too hungry to be suspicious… and to share with the others. Hm.’_ It should be said now that the warg-meat roasted and raw contains Melkor’s essence, made of the warped creatures full of Melkor’s powerful Change. Cooked however with the Dark Lord’s own flame, influence spreads through the elf’s digestive system and permeates his body. Melkor holds out another piece of meat for the next elf in the line.

“Aaps.” He waits, and the elf says the word right back at him. The others are practicing already, eager for their meat. Melkor gets to the last elf and feeds her, watching her tiny hands reach out for the meat as she knows what to expect. He pats her on the head with two fingers and shuffles the contents of the bowl. Around one warg’s worth of meat has been consumed and the rest will not be fresh come tomorrow. Things in Utumno have a habit of decaying. So, Melkor decides to give it to _Mairon_.

“I will give you some more tomorrow, okay?” Melkor scoops up the elves, returning them to their room. He then thinks to give them some other form of sustenance and puts a block of ice in a shallow clay dish. When it melts they will have water, and if they are too impatient they can chew it for entertainment.

“Be good.” Melkor smiles, and gives his children a short wave. He leaves to adjust his meat bits and sizes his body to his favourite two-times-larger-than-Mairon height.

“My precious~ Where are you~?” Calling out for Mairon while honing in on the Maia’s position, Melkor comes to a newly opened door on the fifth floor above ground in Utumno. There, Mairon pauses in his task of shaping a massive chair out of iron bars.   
“Ah. Is there something you want?” Mairon does not look at Melkor until his chin is forced up and he meets the Vala’s eyes.

“I have something for you to eat. I made it.”

“It’ll kill me, probably. No thank you. Now let me go.” Mairon’s eyes drift away from Melkor, back to the hammer in his left hand. Briefly he considers whacking his Master’s skull in and Melkor knows it.

“I don’t want you to starve. Come here.” He sweeps Mairon into his lap as he sits on the unfinished chair, legs spread and meat bowl left on the table nearby. He holds a cooked piece to Mairon’s lips. “It’s really good. Try it?”

The piece is the size of Mairon’s head and there are about fifty others left in the bowl. Turning up his nose, Mairon tries not to breathe. “Gnh. Neghhhrhg.” The pungent aroma is all around however and he cannot avoid it. He gasps for breath when Melkor pinches his sides and in his open mouth is shoved a thick chunk of meat. It is tough with very little fat and a chewy texture perfect for ripping. His pointy teeth sink in and there’s not much flavour other than salt and a ripe youth from what were probably adolescent Wargs.

“Mnfgh! Where did you get this?” Mairon asks, swallowing down the first fresh food he’s had since his arrival here. “You… do not grow anything in these accursed lands.”

“But I could, if you wanted. This is warg meat. You know those wolfish creatures that howl and try to tear each other apart? They’ve got very complex social systems. They bring me things sometimes in worship, and… well, they taste good.” Melkor’s savage, muscular wargs are the only beasts he feels safe eating, as they do not have oozy poisonous bits that probably taste like shit. They breed rapidly too, killing the weak and reproducing with the strong. Natural Selection is what Melkor enforces so that his armies will strengthen themselves without much other intervention. When he starts breeding his children, perhaps they will do the same. Weeding out weakness will prove difficult with his own.

Mairon looks into the bowl. “I won’t eat all that, you know.”

“Fine by me. I put my love and energy into this, and if you refuse it then there’s more for me, I suppose.” Melkor eats a few raw pieces whole and chews with some blood dripping down his chin. “Mmmn, oh these _are_ nice. Maybe I won’t let you have any more.”

“What was that you said about energy?” asks Mairon, reaching to still Melkor’s hand. The tingles of pleasure on his tongue are indeed remnants of Melkor’s might, that which he craves to grow powerful within him. “Have you imparted your strength unto these things?”

“Yes. Go on, have some more. I know you want to.” Melkor proceeds to feed Mairon with his fingers, holding Mairon in his lap securely with one arm. After about ten pieces the little Maia trapped in his favourite body begins to whimper and slow his consumption, telling Melkor that he is full. But Melkor will not put fresh meat to waste and continues to feed him, stroking his thighs in mild encouragement. Mairon ends up looking completely stuffed, his lacy panties straining a little.

“M…Master…” he groans, wiping his mouth on Melkor’s chest. “I… realize… we Ainur do not need to eat…”

“You have a somewhat mortal body now, Mairon.” Melkor knows Mairon does not, and can change at any time as long as he is not collared, but does not say this. “It requires sustenance.”

“Not so much…” Mairon closes his eyes, shifting around uncomfortably. He has never eaten this much before, and feels his body adjusting. “Do you… know about the laws of energy and matter?”

“Uh… they’re the same thing, of course.” Melkor pats Mairon’s stomach, gently massaging there. “What you eat will take form as muscles upon your body, thus giving you greater physical strength.” He assumes the distribution of matter when consumed will physically manifest before it breaks down into raw power, his original essence coming undone inside Mairon’s body. It is his understanding of how Ainur metabolize food, and the reason why he likes to eat. His creatures will give him his own power, but Yavanna’s that freely roam will give him _hers_. Any strength from any Vala he consumes will twist to supplement his own, the only problem being the time between physical and mental effect. In other words, eating will make him either muscular or fat before empowering his mind. Whether he becomes soft or hard must be controlled and in all honesty, Melkor does not care. The effort is too much for something that will take a natural course beyond the tangible realm.

Mairon has eaten before but only for the joy of the taste, never for the purpose of leeching his Master’s power. It goes straight to his thighs initially and the pleasant warmth that spreads through his body heats him to glowing temperatures.

Melkor continues to hold him, unable to keep the smile from his face. Mairon seems to have accepted his offerings and even if it is for his own personal gain, it is a start into their wonderful domestic life together. Melkor turns Mairon around and lifts him up, kissing his weary lips.

“Good…” he whispers, “Such a good little Maia.”

Mairon can do little more than rest, feeling more sated then vulnerable and caring not for Melkor’s conquest into his mouth. He relaxes, allowing Melkor to kiss him and the praises continue to flow. The meaty aftertaste gains smoky undertones, rich and deep and honestly quite delicious. Mairon feels an encouraging hand at his back and leans into Melkor, moaning ever so softly against his Master’s lips. The concept of time is lost to him after long enough.

~

A few hours later Mairon is left to sleep on his own as Melkor receives word from Tevildo. The flowers have arrived, fresh and quickly dying.

“Right. Fetch me some phials, we’re going to make some potions out of these.” Melkor begins crushing the flowers with his bare hands on a slab of smooth rock, grinding them into pulp.

“We don’t have anyyyy…” Tevildo mewls, pawing at Melkor’s back. “Bowls? Will bowls suffice?”

“Sure, whatever, get me some. We’ll cover them and preserve this stuff – who knows how long it’ll be until I’m no longer welcome in Aman. They all hate me there, you know.” The flowers all soon become thoroughly juiced as Melkor takes out his frustrations. Tevildo hands over some badly made clay bowls (some early Goblin-craft for sure) and Melkor scoops the combination of nectar, pollen and petals in. The bowls are large enough for the elves to sit in but these magical flowers from the pure tops of Taniquetil are not to be wasted. There will be no bathing in the liquid, oh, no. The powerful Valarian aphrodisiacs will be administered in tiny amounts until Melkor understands their effects on the elves. The Firstborn are beneath the Ainur in both power and apparently intelligence. They will not need a field to get in the mood.

Melkor goes to see the elves carrying one bowl of sweet-scented purple stuff in both hands. In a form appropriate to holding them one by one, he puts the bowl down just outside their enclosure. The elves look up at him, some of them sitting on the ice block.

_‘I do hope they aren’t experiencing sensory deprivation in here.’_ Melkor worries, and bends over to push the elves away from the ice block. Letting them roll around on the warg-skin, he puts his hand in and waits. Three dare to climb onto his hand, curious about the overpowering scent now filling the room. Melkor grabs a few others and takes them into the room opposite, leaving Piz on his own with the Wraith. The eight elves sit on the tabletop, eyeing the bowl. They have no words to express their curiosity with so Melkor offers some. He mimicks tilting the bowl to his lips then says, “Akr za.” _Drink this_.

Remembering the circumstances surrounding the much-needed meat, some of the elves cough and try to replicate the words. Their slender throats simply are not made for such speech however and frustration begins to set in. Melkor sighs, and scoops up some liquid with floating petals in one cupped hand. “Come.” he murmurs, and beckons with his other hand.

Cautiously the elves approach, five females and three males. By now they have learnt the one utterance and motion that asks them to approach. Brave Brogud and her wide-eyed friend lay hands upon Melkor first, trying to climb into his palm and test the purplish substance. Melkor keeps them from falling in with a hand over their backsides and they drink until he pulls them away. After only a few mouthfuls they flush with wanton lust, cheeks burning and nipples erect. The others see what has happened to them and perceive no anguish, so they drink too. Melkor pours the remaining liquid back into the bowl and licks his own hands clean. The elves by now are a complete mess, writhing in an orgasmic pile under the blissful effects of the flowers. Melkor tries to separate them into couples but so many limbs are entangled that the task is nearly impossible. Even his forceful touches cause cries of pleasure and he sits back to watch. All manner of insertions occur, sexes uncared for in the pursuit of sweet relief. The elves fuck each other under Melkor’s scrutinous gaze for the rest of the day until they are too tired to move, and moan softly at each other, wanting. A slick, pearly substance coats the table which Melkor swipes into a spare bowl for testing. _Maiar are good at science, right?_

~

The next day after Melkor has slept with Mairon in the Maia’s huge, now shared bed, he goes to check on the elves. Mairon wanders after him but Melkor shooes him away, speaking of secrecy and important things. Mairon casts his eyes to the floor and turns away then, heading out of Utumno to explore the volatile grounds. Today he is unwanted, but there are weaker creatures he can bother in the meantime.

He discovers first the Wargs, fighting with creatures he has never seen before. Some demons are about shouting things in Melkor’s language, and after listening for some time Mairon understands that the unknown beasts are _Caragors_. It soon becomes apparent that they are vicious and relentless killing machines, with jaws snapping bones and strong legs powering a predatory sprint. The Wargs fight for their lives against the horned creatures with their skinned back lips and enormous pointy teeth. The ensuing massacre delights the watching crowd, Mairon included who clasps his hands together upon sight of the survivors. Two blood-blackened Wargs pant and scrape at the still-breathing Caragors, feasting on them to regain energy lost in battle. As the Wargs are bred from Wolves, the Caragors are bred from Lions pumped full of Melkor’s infectious malice. The Wargs however are much fluffier and in Mairon’s opinion, visually appealing. He wanders over to the Wargs dressed in his boots and panties, hair curling around his bare torso. The exhausted Wargs look at him and snarl, ears pulled back against their heads. Mairon snarls right back, a gurgling hiss escaping his locked teeth. He makes no violent moves however and the Wargs stay where they are, guarding their meal. Mairon lowers himself to the ground, knowing he can clean himself somehow later by bothering Melkor about it, and approaches a different corpse. The Wargs watch him consume the raw meat, stripping it away with more grace and efficiency than any other creature has. Mairon then rips out the Caragor’s still heart and holds it out to the Wargs, looking into their yellow eyes. After a few minutes of tense consideration, one Warg approaches and rips the heart out of Mairon’s hand. Somehow Mairon is left without any scars and takes some time to look around as he finishes off his own meal. Black, leather-winged hawks with ridiculously long extendo-necks flap about high in the sky, screeching for no apparent reason. Many, many scaly things crawl about at different speeds, the species varying in just about every characteristic. Tiny lizards full of poison follow huge alligator-forms with thick legs and nubby wings. Many of the creatures appear to be in pain, forced to evolve rapidly under Melkor’s influence. Some shed skin the moment they walk from ice onto steaming rocks. Others dig at the ground in desperation for food, or perhaps their Lord’s essence. It is everywhere, Melkor’s might, and Mairon absorbs it as every beast of Utumno does.

Now, enough about that. Mairon intends to spend the whole day exploring for as long as Melkor has no need of him – now, he can be free… to a small degree.

With the elves, Melkor inspects them one by one. They are _still_ writhing about and one of the males desperately ruts against the fingers Melkor probes him with.

“Oh, stop that.” Melkor growls, flicking the elf’s reddened buttocks. The elf cries out wantonly and wiggles his ass back and forth, spreading his legs. Melkor sighs. “Ai, I knew those flowers would be too strong. What if you get stuck like this, hm? You’re going to grind your own balls off.”

“Myeeeeehh…” The elf groans, unable to help himself. Melkor names him _Bolkum_ for this insatiable need and strokes his hair, hoping to calm him. Bolkum reaches to look after himself and Melkor puts him back on the furs amongst all the others. Piz stares at everyone looking rather depressed, still somewhat injured and unable to join in the fun. The Wraith beside him shares in the sentiment, not having a body and all.

Days pass until the effects of the flowers wear off and the elves can think clearly, eating what Melkor gives them and taking what nutrients they can from the leaves in their enclosure. Melkor realizes that they cannot survive on meat only and gives them some berries he knows are poisonous, but learns that the elves are immune to all sorts of disease. Put in a cold environment they take no sickness unlike some of the weaker Goblins who sniffle and cough when the ice-rain falls. Then again, the rain is acidic too. Melkor thinks to work on that.

_‘So. They require fruits, leaves and vegetables, and of course meat. They can drink the meltwater from my ice cubes… That is good enough, is it not? Ai, finding food for them will be troublesome. What can I do to modify their bodies to survive on only meat?’_ The Wargs eat meat, Melkor knows, and they drink fresh blood when water cannot be found. The only water around is boiling hot, found between lava lakes and strangely placed glaciers. The temperatures are so chaotic here in Utumno that Melkor does not know if he will ever find a renewable source of water, not unless he makes one himself.

_‘Wait. Why don’t  I make a waterfall or something? Then, my servants can drink, and maybe things will grow…’_  In a lonely corner Melkor digs a massive hole in the ground to form a lakebed, placing a chunk of ice in the air with the power to grow in size by taking moisture from the clouds above. He then sets a gentle flame inside it, a hole in the top of the ice allowing air to feed the floating fire. After tweaking the shape of his ice and setting what it should shape itself into after losing mass, Melkor creates a steady trickle of water down the side of a tall, sloping mountain that is now peaked with snow. He melts ice directly in the lake to get some hot water in there as a start, and cools it with a careful hand. Then he digs a trench all the way to the gates of Utumno off to the side where the animals have their homes. The Wargs in their dens and the Caragors in the caves along with flying, crawling and slithering creatures see what their Master has done and at once go to drink.

_‘Hell yeah. I’m an awesome warlord, looking after my little fighters like this. Hmhm. I’ll put something like this inside for the Elves.’_

Then he remembers. The elves need _plants_ to eat and those are the most difficult things Melkor can think of making.

He holds one of the elves that night (or day, there is no light in Arda so nobody really knows) and takes a look at its biology. Connecting his mind with the elf’s body tissue, he sees what is required for it to function and takes so long that the elf grows hungry enough to bite him. After feeding it some random thick root-like growth still covered in dirt and a few worms, Melkor goes back to see how the elf processes it. There is protein taken in, the same kind that the Wargs survive on from the meat of their enemies. Melkor hooks his focus into the digestive enzymes and speeds up the intake of nutrients until everything possible out of the meal is absorbed. Melkor cannot set conditions and preferences in the elf’s body to make it want to eat more meat, but at least by making it more efficient at processing the stuff he can encourage certain eating habits. In every elf he will do this until they become proper carnivores, weaning them off whatever they get from plants. Melkor does not have Yavanna’s ability to give and sustain life. Meat will have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( I hope u didn’t cringe at my bullshit science lel))


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